Moments of Grace - Season Three, Act Three: Thicker than Water
by Parlanchina
Summary: That's the thing about families: they're the people closest to you, the people most likely to help you out when you're in trouble, or notice something's wrong. They're also experts at getting under your skin. While the team tackle some challenging cases, Grace is prompted to examine problems that are a little closer to home. AU Complete!
1. Damaged

**Essential Listening: So Nice, So Smart – Kimya Dawson**

 **0o0**

SSA Grace Pearce stepped into the lift in a philosophical frame of mind.

It had been the second of two rare days where the team had rolled out separately: SSA Aaron Hotchner and Doctor Spencer Reid had been carrying out an interview at a prison in Connecticut while the rest of the team caught up with paperwork – at least, in theory. She knew from Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia that the others had followed SSA David Rossi out to Indianapolis on some kind of cold case thing.

His unfinished business, perhaps.

Despite his refusal to discuss it, she suspected she would hear all about it by the end of a fortnight. Coppers talked, and that was just as true at Quantico as it had been in the London Metropolitan Police. It was one of the reasons you had to be selective about who you told your secrets to, and to ensure that those you did trust knew that you didn't want it passed on.

Grace wasn't in the habit of trusting people, but she had been at the Behavioural Analysis Unit for nearly a year now and had learned to think of some of her colleagues as family.

She had spent the day running a seminar on occult crimes at the training school. It had been an unusual experience. There was some disparity between what people thought was the occult and what actually was; this kind of seminar was useful for dispelling some of the illusions created by film and the media. Most of it was just murder with some local hysteria, but from time to time you came across a criminal who really _believed_ what they were doing was magic, and that made them extremely dangerous.

The occult was Grace's forte, but working through cases with cadets and interested parties had been a little unsettling.

It was the kind of the thing she'd loved doing back home and it had brought back memories – both good and bad. She remembered always feeling faintly smug back then, generally being the only person in the room who knew what was really out there – that magic was real – but now it just made her feel tired and a little lonely.

Back in London, she'd been a part of a team for whom the supernatural was just something you put on your CV. It had been like being part of their own secret club, deep in the heart of the Met. Out here, nothing about her magic was official – even the discussion she'd had with Hotch had never been recorded, as far as she knew. What little she had told him had barely scratched the surface.

Even Reid, who had slightly more knowledge about her clandestine talents, didn't know the half of it – and believed less. Recently she'd noticed one or two of the more obscure magical texts on his shelves, though he'd denied all knowledge when she'd asked him about it.

She was torn between amusement and concern: magic was dangerous, particularly if you approached it in the wrong way, and without proper supervision. She was reluctant to interrupt him however. Research was _his_ forte and generally speaking she had sensed not a little anxiety from him when it came to real magic, which put a bit of a strain on their friendship at times.

If he was genuinely trying to find a way to cope with it, she didn't want to get in his way. Knowing everything there was to know about something was his defence mechanism.

She stepped out on the fifth floor and dodged the cross-traffic into the bullpen. Grace found SSA Anderson in the kitchen area, working his way through the obligatory box of doughnuts that heralded someone's birthday. She snaffled one and clapped him on the back.

"Happy Birthday!"

"Thanks," he said, reclining in his chair. "Can't believe I'm thirty!"

"Doing anything special?" she asked, picking hundreds and thousands off the top of her doughnut and popping them into her mouth.

"Family meal back home at the weekend," he told her. "Also I'm intending not to do anything for the rest of the day."

Grace laughed.

"At the BAU? Good luck with that."

She left him doing a crossword, content in the knowledge that today – unless all hell broke loose – no one would take him to task for slacking off a little. She was wading through the ever-replenishing stack of reports in her in-tray when Reid and Hotch strode in, looking tired from their journey.

"Hey," she greeted them warmly; both men stopped by her desk.

"How was the seminar?" Hotch asked.

Grace considered for a moment before answering.

"Thought provoking," she settled on. "How was Chester Hardwick?"

"Violent, narcissistic, power hungry…" Reid shrugged; there wasn't that much more to say.

"Toying with us," Hotch remarked, bluntly.

There was something about his manner that seemed a little clipped, strained today. Spencer shot him a glance that suggested the interview hadn't gone quite as smoothly as it could've done. Hotch's eyes fell on Grace's snack.

"You have a doughnut," he observed, frowning slightly.

Grace jerked her thumb over her shoulder towards the kitchen area and smiled.

"Anderson's thirty today," she explained.

Hotch made a grunting noise in the back of his throat and went to secure a doughnut (or possibly chase the young agent back to work).

The two youngest members of the team watched him go, contemplatively.

"So, how was Chester Hardwick?" Grace repeated, and Spencer raised his eyebrows, realising that the nature of the question had changed somewhat.

"A total waste of time," he admitted, wearing a rueful smile, eyes still on their boss. "I'll tell you later."

Grace nodded, understanding that to mean 'where no one can overhear'.

"Hotch okay?"

Spencer met her eyes and lowered his voice.

"That's something I _won't_ be telling you later," he mumbled, firmly establishing the topic as off limits.

 _That's a 'no' then,_ Grace thought, as Spencer dumped his satchel on the desk adjacent to hers and went off in search of part of Anderson's birthday treats.

Grace didn't need to be a profiler to know there was something going on with their fearless leader. He'd been a little off for weeks – almost since he'd nearly transferred out – but now it appeared to be coming to a head. She had a shrewd suspicion it was something to do with Haley and Jack; she'd been among coppers long enough to recognise the strain this kind of work put on a family. She knew he'd ask for their help if he needed it, and decided not to press the issue.

She nodded to Hotch as he hurried back past her desk, a coffee and another doughnut in hand, looking like he'd had one of the worst days of his life.

"Do you think anyone would notice if I just 'accidentally' deleted all my emails?" Grace asked, upon Spencer's return.

He chuckled.

"Aside from Garcia?"

"Yeah, she'd probably have me executed…"

Grace looked up as a shadow fell across the report she was working on, to find Kevin Lynch standing between her and Reid's desks, looking lost and agitated.

"Hey," she said, surprised.

He hadn't been about much since Garcia had returned to work.

"Oh – uh – hi," he stammered, brightly. "Uh… is Agent Rossi in his office, do you know?"

"Oh, er – no," Grace told him, glancing up at the office. "He's been out in Indianapolis."

"They should be getting out of the airport around now," Reid offered, checking his watch. "So, um…"

"Oh – uh – great!" Lynch stuttered. "I'll – uh – wait in his office…"

He trailed off, already threading his way through the desks away from them. He looked terrified.

Grace shared a speaking look with Spencer, perplexed.

"What's with him?" she asked.

Spencer shrugged, turning back to his computer, both of them putting his behaviour down to the eternal vagaries of the technical analysts.

They worked in companionable silence for an hour or so, finishing off reports, comparing notes and answering emails while the great human engine that was the BAU rumbled slowly on around them, generating bureaucracy as it went. Grace was almost through the top layer of her pile when SSAs Emily Prentiss, Derek Morgan, David Rossi and Jennifer Jareau strolled in, back from their impromptu (and, judging from their cheerful expressions, successful) visit to Indianapolis.

"Hey hey," Morgan grinned, winking at Grace as he stowed his go bag beneath his desk, making the Perspex partition rattle.

Grace looked up, giving her colleagues a friendly nod of acknowledgement.

"Pretty boy," Morgan continued, nodding at Reid. "How was Connecticut?"

"Ultimately uneventful," said Spencer, keeping it deliberately vague. He looked at Rossi, closing his file. "Sir, there's uh –" He coughed, sitting up. "Somebody waiting to speak to you in your office," he continued, pointing.

Spotting their arrival, Kevin Lynch got to his feet, looking exceptionally nervous.

Grace watched Rossi's face, fascinated, in case it betrayed any clue. If anything, he looked bemused. JJ, on the other hand, Grace noted with growing curiosity, was struggling to keep a straight face.

"Agent Rossi," Lynch began, anxiously. "We need to talk. About – uh – Penelope." He paused, looking very serious indeed. "Man to man."

Emily looked from Lynch to Spencer, to Grace, baffled.

"Wha-?" she mouthed, but Grace could only shrug, helplessly.

Light appeared to have dawned for Rossi, however.

"Man to man," he confirmed, with a slight smile, and joined the worried Technical Analyst in his office, closing the door behind him.

The five of them watched him go, in various attitudes of confusion and amusement.

"What about Penelope?" Morgan asked, looking around.

"I don't know," said Reid, with a frown.

JJ grinned.

"Garcia and Kevin, sittin' in a tree," she sang, just loud enough for them to hear, and walked off to her office.

Grace clapped a hand to her mouth in delight as the proverbial penny dropped.

"Get outta here – you serious?" Morgan demanded.

"Oh my God!" Grace laughed, fingers still pressed to her face.

"Oh!" Emily gasped, her mouth forming a perfect 'o' of surprise as Morgan departed at some speed, probably to investigate his best friend. "Just when I thought nothing scandalous was ever gonna happen 'round here!" she laughed.

"What? What does that mean?"

Reid's question knocked both agents for six; Emily and Grace both stared at him.

"Didn't you hear JJ?" Emily asked, gesturing after their media liaison.

"The – the song meant something?" Spencer realised, looking around, both confused and annoyed (quite an adorable combination, Grace felt). "No! No, I missed it!"

"I – it – it –" Emily stuttered, stumped by Spencer's uncharacteristic lack of knowledge.

She looked to Grace for help, but she was equally amazed by the children's rhyme that had clearly passed their friend by.

"Er…" Grace began.

Emily shook her head, in silent agreement with Grace.

"You know what? No," she said, sitting down.

"We can't be held responsible for corrupting him," Grace agreed, still astonished.

"What?" Spencer demanded, desperate to know.

"Uh-uh," Emily admonished, turning her attention to the small-scale drama playing out in Rossi's office, just visible through the blinds.

Spencer pulled a face, looking wildly around for answers, utterly flummoxed. His expression pleaded with Grace, but she shook her head as well.

"Nope."

He turned back to Rossi's office, delightfully bewildered.

"Oh come on you guys, that's not fair!"

0o0o0o0

"Hold the elevator!"

Grace looked up to see Reid coming out of the bullpen at some speed, rushing to catch up with her. She pressed the hold button obligingly and the doors juddered back open.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

They waited for the doors to close again. It was unusual to find the lift with so few occupants in it – less so at this late hour of the day. Taking their cues from Hotch and with work to catch up on from being out of the office, most of the team had stayed late. Grace was tired, and looking forward to a hot meal and a hot bath. She hummed to herself, her mind firmly at home.

"No, okay," said Reid, suddenly. "It's driving me crazy. What was the thing with the song?"

Grace laughed and shook her head.

"Uh-uh," she teased him. "You're not getting that from me, matey."

"Oh, come _on!_ "

"No. No, you're all sweet and innocent and I'm not messing with that."

"You suck," he complained, looking away in frustration and – from the tone of his voice – not a little amusement.

Grace was very much enjoying his confusion, but he seemed to be struggling to keep a smile off his face now, too.

"Okay, I'll tell you what – I'll make you a deal," he offered.

Grace raised an eyebrow, interested.

"You tell me what was going on back there and I'll buy you dinner."

The offer immediately brought a smile to her face.

"I don't know…" she teased.

"Come on, Grace," he begged, his head flopping to one side, hair temporarily obscuring his eyes. "We could check out that new Thai place on Freemont?"

"Tempting," she admitted, trying to draw it out further, but she knew from his eyes Spencer was already aware he'd won.

"Please?"

"Alright, it's a deal."

She smiled at him and he beamed back in triumph, which made her laugh again.

The doors of the lift opened, curtailing any further explanation. Grace waited until they were on the path which led to the AMTRACK, sufficiently far away from other pedestrians that they wouldn't overhear.

"Okay, 'Garcia and Kevin, sitting in a tree,'" she chanted, softly, and he peered at her closely, trying not to miss a thing. "K-I-S-S-I-N-G…'"

She saw realisation dawn on her friend's face and giggled.

"Oh my God!" he exclaimed. "Garcia and Kevin Lynch? Oh my God!"

"I know!" Grace grinned. "It's so cute!"

He snorted.

"'Man to man'?"

"Oh yeah," she nodded, laughing with him. "Makes you wonder what Rossi did, huh?"

"Yeah!" He chucked again. "So, that's really all the song was?"

"There's another bit," she said, and recited the rest. "It's all playground stuff."

"Well, that's why it passed me by," he reasoned. "I was always in the library."

"You know, it amazes me – the random things you _don't_ know."

She nudged him gently in the ribs, in a friendly sort of way. It had been pretty gentle, but this being Spencer it sent him off the kerb for a moment.

"I can't believe you and Emily wouldn't tell me," he grumbled, mostly for show.

He wasn't really annoyed anymore, anyway.

"There is such a thing as 'Google', you know."

Spencer sent her such a look that it sent her off into peals of laughter once more.

0o0o0o0

"Hide and seek."

"Hide and _go_ seek."

"Well, if you will insert extraneous verbs all over the place."

Spencer laughed.

"You know, British Bulldogs sounds terrifying," he remarked.

"Not that dissimilar to Dodgeball," Grace told him.

"Yeah, not at all dissimilar," Spencer grumbled, arching a brow. "Except from what you've told me there's no balls involved and the idea is genuinely to knock people out."

Grace snorted.

"I'd say there's a considerable amount of balls involved, having played it," she told him, bringing a faint blush to his face.

It still amazed her that she could do that to him.

"Whatever."

They had been discussing playground rhymes and games all through dinner, and the conversation had spilled out onto the pavement as they walked home. The waiter at the Thai restaurant had looked on in bemusement as they had discussed the possible connotations of child sacrifice in the London specific nursery rhyme 'Oranges and Lemons' and, inevitably, the American 'Lizzie Borden Took an Axe' ("Of course you know _that_ one Grace, it's you.").

"I was pretty good at British Bulldogs, to be honest," she told him, faintly proud of herself.

"That does not surprise me."

She stuck her tongue out.

"You know, I imagine you being more of a fan of Catch and Kiss," he reflected, sharply.

"And just what are you implying?" she asked; he gave her an impish smile. "Is that like Kiss Chase?"

"All the girls terrorise the boys by backing them into corners and trying to kiss them?"

Grace roared with laughter.

"Kinda – though we always had two rounds, girls chasing boys then boys chasing girls, and no one had to play if they didn't want to."

"That would have been nice."

Grace rubbed his arm and then linked it with her own.

"There are days when I want to go back in time and beat up the kids you went to school with," she reflected. "Anyway, it was just a variant of tag really."

They walked along quietly for a moment, while Grace fought the urge to yell 'tag', punch Reid on the arm and run away.

It was pleasant out, the early heat of a spring evening only interrupted by a few stray gusts of wind, and Grace was enjoying ambling along with her friend. It came as no surprise to her that when they turned into her street, he simply kept pace with her. Following one another home had become something of a habit, generally because they were halfway through a conversation that they didn't want to end.

She let them in, picked up the mail that had fallen to the floor and then went to collect a parcel that had been delivered to her recycling bin. Grumbling about mail operatives leaving things in unsecure locations, she carried it back in, finding Spencer already making two cups of tea.

She smiled, pleased he felt so comfortable in her home.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Don't know," she admitted, setting it down on the counter. "I've not ordered anything."

It was an innocuous kind of packaging, not like anything from one of the book or plant companies she normally ordered from. The address was handwritten – something about the writing was familiar, but she couldn't quite place it.

For a moment, Grace hesitated, her hand hovering over the brown paper. Her past had taught her to be wary, and while her new life in the States was settled and predominantly happy now, old habits died hard. She had had many reasons to be cautious.

"You okay?" Spencer asked, and Grace let her hand fall, telling herself she was being silly.

"Yeah…"

The slightest of frowns passed across Spencer's face. It was gone in a flash, but that flash had been enough to tell her that he didn't believe her – and that he was still keeping an eye on her. In general there was a moratorium on inter-team profiling, but they were only human, it wasn't as if they could prevent themselves doing it unconsciously. It was pretty much instinct by this point.

She tore open the paper, and then carefully peeled back the bubble-wrap.

"It's a painting," she said, surprised. "Oh…"

Spencer stooped and picked up the letter that had fluttered to the floor.

"Here."

"I think it's from Odette." She read the letter and grinned. "It _is_ from Odette. Look," she showed him. "She's settled in the reservation with her parents, sketching elephants."

One of them – a lively youngster by the look of it – was drawn on the bottom of the page, trumpeting happily.

"It's good to know she's doing okay," Spencer observed.

Odette Moss had been the centre of a recent case and a brutal series of murders. Knowing that cases could have good outcomes and that there were survivors who were still – well – surviving was good for the mental health of their team.

"What's the painting? Another elephant?"

"No…" Grace finished unwrapping the canvas and turned it over. "Oh. Oh…"

She stared at the face in the oil paint.

"It's you," Spencer exclaimed, leaning over her shoulder. "Wow."

The painting was beautiful, and Grace said so, flattered.

"Hah," Grace murmured. "She's made me pretty. Very diplomatic."

"No, you've always been that pretty."

Grace looked up, surprised, and stared at her friend in astonishment. He looked up from the painting, the awareness that he'd spoken aloud travelling slowly across his face.

"Spencer, wha-"

"I – uh –" he stammered, backing away.

Since he wasn't looking where he was going, his foot tangled in the strap of Grace's bag and he stumbled. A hot blush was flushing his cheeks.

"Hey, are you okay?" she asked, but he retreated further with every step she took towards him, waving his arms wildly.

"I – uh – I have to go!"

"I – wait!" she laughed, but he was already out of the door. "Spencer…"

Grace frowned, wondering what the hell had got into her friend.

"Now why would that make you blush?" she asked aloud, as he disappeared around the corner. "Unless you…"

She frowned, putting her head to one side.

 _Oh now. That could be problematic._

"Huh."


	2. A Higher Power

**Essential Listening: Low, by Coldplay**

 **0o0**

Rossi stirred his coffee thoughtfully.

Hotch had been there early, as always, but he hadn't yet stirred from his office. He was standing at his office window, staring out across the complex of buildings that constituted the beating heart of Quantico. His position was visible – unusually so, as if he hadn't even thought about it. Generally, Aaron Hotchner spent most of his time either at his desk or on the small couch he had for more informal meetings, and always – always – with a file (or several) open and his mind on a case.

Right now, body language closed off, his eyes trained somewhere in the middle distance, he looked like his mind was anywhere but on work.

Dave sighed. He knew what a man going through a divorce he did not want looked like. Feeling a pang of empathy, he intercepted JJ as she strode through the office and told her he'd pick up Hotch on the way past his office.

She gave him an odd look, but let it go. She already knew something was up with their boss – they all did. That was the price you paid for working with five of the best profilers on the planet, an incredibly astute media liaison and probably the nosiest technical analyst in the history of the organisation.

He knocked then stuck his head around the door to the office; Hotch's tight shoulders went higher, if anything, tensing for trouble.

"Got a case," he said, and then frowned at the go-bag already waiting on the desk. There weren't even any files open. Pre-occupied just didn't cut it. "So, you've either decided we're taking the case, or this bag is headed for another destination."

He left the sentence to hang there and patted the bag.

Aaron's expression said it all; the unit chief sighed heavily, and Dave was once again reminded how much younger this man was. He looked exhausted.

"I need a favour," he said; Dave could tell he felt uncomfortable asking, but his professional temperament required that some things were done properly.

"Of course."

"I need some personal time, no more than a day," said Aaron.

It was a testament to their friendship that neither man needed to mention the divorce aloud, though Hotch hadn't (as far as Dave knew) mentioned it to anyone yet.

"Take all the time you need."

That might have been it, but it seemed like Aaron needed to get some things out at least.

"I need to talk to Jack," he said.

Dave grimaced.

"I've lost her, but I'm not gonna lose him. I need to try to tell him what's going on." Hotch shook his head. "I don't know how much he's going to understand, but…"

That was the toughest thing with young children, trying to explain that they were still cherished while one or the other parent seemingly vanished from their life. Three years weren't quite enough time to get the concept of divorce, or even romantic love – but the fact that Hotch was trying would mean something to Jack later on, and to Haley. It was no secret that he was still in love with his estranged wife. Rossi was willing to bet that she still loved him, too.

This job had a knack of doing a number on peoples' love lives. Dave looked away for a moment, grateful that none of his marriages had left a child caught in the crossfire.

"All he needs to understand," he said, with the certainty Hotch needed to hear, "is that you love him."

Hotch grimaced. Sometimes that was one of the hardest emotions you could ever try to express.

"I'll join you when I can."

Dave nodded and left his friend to run through what he was going to say to his little boy one last time. The rest of the team were already gathered in the conference room. They looked up when he came in, and quickly looked down again when it was clear Hotch wasn't about to join them.

No one mentioned Aaron's absence; they all knew why he was preoccupied.

It was a good thing at times, Dave thought, to have a group of people who were all smart enough to know exactly what was going on in their colleagues minds and all cared about one another enough not to air it out. They knew when to push it, and this was not one of those times.

Dave motioned for JJ to begin, a signal that he was temporarily in charge – at least until Hotch got back from talking to his son. No one mentioned that, either.

"Three months ago, a fire at Shady Side Rec' Centre killed fourteen children," JJ began, nodding towards the newspaper printouts she had prepared.

"I remember that," Morgan reflected, sadly.

It was the kind of news story that stuck with a person.

"What does that have to do with us?" Dave asked, with a frown.

"Well, over the past three months there's been five suicides," JJ explained. "All of them lost a child in the fire."

Around the room, faces clouded, brows creased and heads were shaken.

"The last one was Paul Baleman," JJ continued, looking down at her notes. "He was found electrocuted in his bathtub yesterday. I've received a request for our help."

"Why do they need our help?" Morgan asked, perplexed. "They're suicides."

"All the suicides were within two weeks of each other," Reid observed, peering closely at the file. "Could be some kind of pattern."

"Detective Ronnie Baleman, Pittsburgh PD thinks something's going on," JJ told them.

"Well, of course he does," Morgan said dismissively.

"Why do you say that?" Prentiss asked, looking up.

"He's related to that man, right?" Dave asked, meeting JJ's gaze.

She nodded.

"His brother."

 _So naturally there's some bias there._

Morgan shook his head.

"A cop who doesn't want to believe his brother committed suicide?" Morgan looked around, the twist to his mouth saying all they needed to know. He shrugged. "C'mon, next case."

"Just because they're related doesn't mean he's wrong," said Pearce, reasonably. She had been keeping out of it so far, reading through the news report about the fire, a haunted look on her face that made Rossi wonder. "His family know him best and – yes they may be biased here, but it only takes one person to spot that something's off. Remember Detective McGee?"

Morgan shook his head again.

"I just don't see it."

He made to walk out of the room, but Prentiss stopped him.

"Now wait a second, five suicides in the same neighbourhood in months? That's a serious spike!" she pointed out.

"Suicides don't spike after a tragedy," Dave observed.

"Quite the opposite, actually," said Reid, in that strangely encyclopaedic way he had. "Following World Wars One and Two, after Kennedy was shot and following nine-eleven suicides plummeted. Uh – within a society external threats usually create group integrations."

"People come together," JJ clarified.

"We're reminded how precious life is," Pearce agreed.

"So if there's reason for doubt – which there obviously is…" Prentiss suggested. "Don't those families left behind have a right to know?"

"They need closure," said Pearce.

"Yes, they do," Dave told them, watching Aaron through the window.

Their Unit Chief was plainly taking advantage of the fact that his team were occupied to make a swift exit. Dave shook his head again. What a year.

"Yeah, sure they deserve to know, but let somebody else tell 'em – like social services," Morgan argued.

The team fell silent, expectant. Dave could feel them all looking at him, waiting on his decision. Not for the first time he thanked God he had come back to the BAU as a senior agent and not a Unit Chief. That role was too stifling: it needed a consummate professional and he preferred to be mischievous.

"Contact Detective Baleman," he said, turning to face them. "Let him know we're coming."

0o0

Reid was avoiding her gaze.

It was irking her a little, partly because he was as hopelessly obvious about it as he was about everything else (she could feel her co-workers gearing up to ask her about it, concerned as they always were for their little family) and partly because she'd been hoping she was wrong about his recent behaviour.

Plus, they were in the jet and that was quite a difficult place to ignore someone in.

However, since he had fled her kitchen the week before, he had been avoiding her for the most part and was decidedly awkward around her when he couldn't. As irritating as it was, she missed him. She was sure this new shyness had something to do with his unexpected admission that he thought she was pretty.

Grace still couldn't decide whether she had been more surprised about that or he had.

The idea that Spencer Reid found her attractive was a little odd to contemplate.

Not because he wasn't attractive himself – he could be incredibly cute at times – but because he was her closest friend.

She wasn't looking for anything more complicated right now, and if she had been, she would have looked elsewhere. One drunken night in New Orleans notwithstanding, she simply didn't think about him that way. He just wasn't her type – in fact, he was about as far away from her type as you could get while still being male.

She had a horrible feeling that her friend might be harbouring a small crush on her.

Vaguely hopeful that if she never mentioned it he would forget all about it, she turned her mind back to the slim file in her lap. There wasn't really an investigation as such, so there were no notes to go on, and no autopsies – yet. That information would be waiting for them in Pittsburgh.

They had a few newspaper reports about the original fire and the five suicides.

It wasn't a great deal to hang a case on; they would have their work cut out for them here. It wasn't going down well in all quarters.

"Hotch would never have taken this case," Morgan complained, from the table seat behind her.

Grace turned and knelt on her seat, leaning over the top of it. She raised her eyebrow at Morgan, who shrugged at her. Beside him, Spencer glanced up, coloured slightly and quickly returned his gaze to his notes.

"And I say 'case' in its loosest sense."

Emily, who was sitting more or less under where Grace was resting her arms, glanced up at her friend in mild exasperation. God love Morgan, but when he had a gripe he made sure the whole jet knew about it.

"Okay, maybe this is just matrixing," Grace allowed, one eye on Rossi, who was making himself a coffee in the kitchenette behind them. "But what if it isn't? That's not a chance we should take."

"There are other cases that we coulda took where we could be more use," Morgan argued.

Grace shrugged. He was probably right, but they were on this now, and – like it or not – they should be giving it their full attention.

"We'll find the facts as they are without bias," said Rossi, taking the seat beside Grace and leaning around it to have a good view of the table. "Isn't that what we do?"

"What facts, Rossi?" Morgan asked, peeved. "Look at us, we don't have a single file."

"Okay, let me help you out," he said, and JJ joined them from the seat opposite. "Uh, jump right in, any time," he added, courteously. "Fact one: there are no files, so it seems, no case."

"But what if there is?" Emily challenged him.

"One fire, fourteen deaths, five suicides," R tallied, finally looking up.

"All the suicides are connected to the original fire," JJ chipped in.

"And all exactly two weeks apart," Emily added.

"Come on Derek, you can't tell me that doesn't feel a lot like a pattern," Rossi appealed.

"And a timeline," Emily put in.

"Right?" said Rossi.

Morgan sighed, looking around at his colleagues with something close to frustration on his face.

"A lotta people lost their kids in that fire," he said, sadly. "That's a whole world of grief and for a few…" he shook his head. "Suicide's their only way out."

Grace frowned, but kept her mouth shut. She knew that kind of pain all too well; it never left you, never got easier – it just changed pitch. She glanced up to find Spencer looking right at her. Of all her co-workers, he was the only one who knew about her son. Even Hotch didn't know, since so much of her file had been clumsily redacted by her former Governor.

They shared a grimace.

"Not for all of them," she felt compelled to say. "Five out of fourteen's a pretty high proportion."

 _There are a lot of reasons to keep going,_ she added privately. _Other loved ones, a sense of duty, fear…_

"Unless someone decided it was," Rossi insisted.

"And made it look this way?" M asked, raising an eyebrow.

"What if they have?" Rossi proposed, urging the conversation forward.

Morgan sighed.

There was a moment of contemplative silence, filled only by the noise of the engines.

"Then we're lookin' for one very smart unsub," Morgan admitted.

"Who targets people in grief," said Emily.

"When they're the most vulnerable," Grace qualified.

"And that would make them – what?" Rossi asked.

Grace resisted the urge to tell him just how much he sounded like a junior school teacher when he took that tone. It seemed to be working, however. Grudgingly, the entire team was beginning to come around to the idea that Pittsburgh was where they needed to be – Morgan unusually trailing somewhere behind.

"Someone who thinks they're putting them out of their misery," JJ said, darkly.

"They believe they're helping them," Grace reflected.

"An Angel of Death," said Spencer.

Grace chewed the inside of her cheek. This kind of unsub didn't stop unless they were caught. Often they found a way to carry on inside prison.

"If Detective Baleman's right about this, then this guy's only going to get worse," Grace said.

0o0

 _There is no refuge from confession but suicide, and suicide is confession._

– _Daniel Webster_

0o0

Pittsburgh police department was busy, but orderly: the perfect example of a working station. Detective Baleman was waiting for them. He was clearly still grieving for his brother – it had only been a couple of days, after all – and the whole team were relieved when Reid managed to persuade him to help with the psychological autopsies of the victims. They'd need him focussed and away from any area where he might infect them with bias if they were going to get this thing moving.

Assuming there was anything to move.

Grace headed out to Paul Baleman's house with Morgan, Emily and Rossi, wanting to see the crime scene – and the rest of the house. With two major losses within weeks the rest of the family (Baleman was survived by two more children and his wife) must be going through a meltdown.

Besides, she'd seen cases before where people had used a series of murders or suicides to cover up their own domestic homicides, and she wanted to be sure that they hadn't misread that before they really got their teeth in.

Pam Baleman, Paul's widow, didn't fit that particular pattern, however. She was agitated, distraught and very obviously only just holding things together. It was clear that she had loved her husband very much, and on top of her daughter's death his apparent suicide must have been unbearable. Grace let Rossi do most of the talking while Morgan and Emily had a poke around in the bathroom where Paul had allegedly electrocuted himself.

Nothing they did right now would really ease this woman's suffering, but she could at least try not to make things worse.

"Tell me about the fire," Rossi instructed.

Pam took a deep breath and then sighed.

"It's the annual fall dance for the kids," she said, and it was obvious that every word cost her. "And it's really popular. It's hard to get tickets, but the kids love it."

Facing away from her and observing the only-just-clinging-on-to-tidy countertops of the kitchen, Grace closed her eyes briefly. It would have been all the kids talked about for months. The parents would have had to fight to get tickets. They would have been so excited…

"Do you personally know any of the other families?" Rossi asked, gently.

"Who lost children?"

"And who recently committed suicide as a result."

She didn't need to be watching her to recognise the change in the woman's demeanour. It was so strong that Grace could practically taste it. The possibility that all these deaths were connected somehow, that her husband hadn't done what it seemed like he'd done had awakened a dark and powerful hope inside her.

Dangerous.

For Pam Baleman's sake, she hoped they were right about this.

Rossi had obviously seen it too, since he qualified his enquiry.

"Just questions," he assured her. "Okay?"

Pam said something beneath her breath – so full of passion and intensity that even that tiny murmur made Grace turn towards her. She seemed to be struggling to keep her voice level, and small wonder. She cleared her throat.

"Paul wouldn't do this," she whispered.

"What?" Rossi probed.

"Paul wouldn't do this," she said, more loudly this time. "Not after all we've been through – he _would not_ leave us. Not like that."

Her voice broke with emotion, but those words had been spoken with more certainty than anything else Grace had heard her say so far.

She shared a look with Rossi as Pam Baleman stepped away to collect herself.

People often believed that in cases of serial murder or suicide a spouse would have – should have – seen the behaviour that described their partner's turmoil. She knew from her own experience that the assumption was cruel and it could do more damage to the people left behind than the death or murder itself. The truth was, whether Grace liked it or not, sometimes they just didn't know.

The thought was still nagging at her when they climbed back in the car. The short version of Morgan and Emily's investigation in the bathroom was that if it was murder, it had to be someone who had intimate knowledge of the house's electrics (there was no surge protector in the bathroom, despite safety regulations) and who didn't mind a pretty gnarly two-storey drop out of the window as an escape route. The door had been locked from the inside.

"If Baleman was a contractor he woulda known about the GFI," Morgan said, from the front seat.

Grace murmured her agreement. The more she thought about Baleman's untimely end, the less she thought it could be murder.

But that didn't mean that the others were.

0o0

"If these psychological autopsies prove that they weren't suicides then I need to inform the media right away," Detective Baleman said, with a sense of tense urgency.

It had been characteristic of the whole encounter – and Spencer couldn't entirely blame him. He had just lost his brother…

He wondered whether he ought to ask Rossi to recommend to the man's CO that he needed a week or two of compassionate leave. Deciding against this (he'd go loopy if he wasn't allowed to investigate a potential murder in his own family) he let JJ take the lead.

"I would err on the side of caution," she urged.

"What?" Baleman demanded. He looked dumbfounded. "People need to know!"

"And they will – as soon as we have absolute proof," JJ assured him. "I – I think the town's been through enough already, don't you?"

Spencer attempted to moderate the wince that passed across his face. He knew JJ was right – they needed to keep this close to their chest right now or they'd push the unsub into hiding. He also knew without looking at him that Baleman wasn't going to accept that right now.

"Also, keep in mind if these cases are related then this unsub's probably already aware that we're onto him," he added, hoping it would help.

"The community needs to know if there's a serial killer in its midst," Baleman exclaimed, incredulous at what must have seemed to him an appalling lack of concern for public safety.

"And they will," JJ repeated. "As soon as we have proof."

 _No use causing a panic until we know we're right._

"Even if the proof means another body?" Baleman surmised.

Spencer looked down, feeling uncomfortable. Sometimes another victim was the only way to move a case forward – but that simple fact didn't make you hate yourself any less when you got to their particular corpse.

Baleman shook his head and exited the office in apparent disgust. The two agents shared a speaking look before JJ rubbed her hands over her face in frustration.

"Ugh… he's right you know," she groused.

"He's also personally motivated though," Spencer offered. "Which means he's likely to react irrationally."

"If this turns out to be the work of a serial killer, the whole town will, too."


	3. For the Best

**Essential listening: Hide & Seek, by Imogen Heap**

 **0o0**

The call had come in over the shift change, so there had been a little initial confusion before Baleman and the team had been informed. Now they were scattered around a house where the unthinkable had happened, trying to help the family and the local PD pick up the pieces.

As liaison, JJ was responsible for looking after the husband and little boy, and Grace didn't envy her the task. The baby looked too much like the way she imagined Michael; it made her ribs ache just looking at him. Instead she shadowed the forensic techs, noting that unlike the Balemans' house, Beth Smoler's home was fresh and inviting. There was still some evidence of turmoil, but this was a woman who had clearly made some attempt at moving on, if only for the baby.

Her ante-mortem behaviour just didn't match that of a suicidal woman.

Emily and Morgan were similarly uncomfortable, but she suspected their discomfort was more related to the case at hand. Emily was staring out into the crowd of onlookers beyond the tape, a pinched expression on her face.

"You alright?" Morgan asked Emily, as Grace joined them on the porch, beneath the noose Beth Smoler had been swinging from when her husband had come home.

Her one year old had been in a high chair only a matter of feet away, just behind a partition wall. She thanked anything that passed for a god that he hadn't had to watch.

"Yeah," she said, shaking herself. "Let's do this."

"Alright, you got a kid, there's a bad guy in the house," said Morgan, calling it. "What d'you do to protect your child?"

"Fight," said Emily immediately.

"To the death," Grace added.

Morgan gestured towards the body bag – the final indignity for Mrs Smoler.

"Not a single defensive wound on her body," he pointed out.

"Well," Emily scoffed. "I don't suppose she climbed up there of her own free will."

Morgan gave her a look.

"Unless she committed suicide."

"Unlikely," Grace told him.

It was unthinkable.

"She's got a baby crying for her in the other room," Emily pointed out.

And that was why. Grace lifted her palm towards Emily as if to say 'there you go'.

"If she had committed suicide she would have left the boy with friends or family, or made sure someone was coming over to find him," Grace reasoned. "The number of female suicides who don't ensure their young children are cared for is practically zero."

"Alright, what're you – channelling Pretty Boy?"

Grace pulled a face at him; she glanced back inside, where the rest of the team were sadly picking through the woman's last moments.

"The father found him in the highchair," JJ, setting a toy down. "Not a scratch."

Rossi, who was sitting pensively at the kitchen table across from said highchair, steepled his fingers.

"Remember, the unsub believes he's on some kind of a mission," he said. "The child is of no importance to him." He glanced over at Reid, who was peering into the playpen across the room. "They find a suicide note?"

"Haven't found one yet," said Reid, looking pained.

"So, what're you thinkin'?"

The young agent raised his eyebrows, thoughtfully.

"In every case there's no evidence of a struggle."

"No breaking and entering," Rossi mused. He looked at JJ. "I'm gonna need you, Grace and Emily to contact all the families affected by that fire and inform them what's going on. They need to be warned immediately."

Morgan still wasn't convinced from the sound of it; Grace was hovering in the threshold, party to both conversations. The atmosphere couldn't be more different, inside and out.

"So she couldn't cope," said Morgan, sadly. "She snapped. It happens. It happens every day."

Emily shook her head.

"No, she said. "Not here it didn't."

Morgan looked back at Grace, who shrugged.

"I'm with Emily on this – it doesn't feel anything like a suicide."

"Guys, right now, that's exactly what happened," he said.

Emily rolled her eyes.

"Paul Baleman's house – that's what you expect from someone who is deeply depressed, deeply traumatised," Emily argued.

"Yeah, I know, I saw it," Morgan told her. "Everything past orderly, everything present disorderly."

"A classic disconnection from the pain of losing their child," Grace observed, thinking about how her flat had looked those first few months back home. Rather like a train had run through it.

"The bookshelf, the glass cabinet – all had order when their lives had order, had meaning," Emily continued. "Everything about Beth's home says she moved on."

Morgan looked around, halfway to agreeing with them – but still halfway out the door.

"Then how did she get up there without a fight?" he asked, pointing up at the beam.

Emily blew the air out of her cheeks, thinking hard; Grace resisted the urge to suggest magic. There was no trace of it here, and it wouldn't help.

"She was already dead?" Emily suggested.

"Dead weight is a lot heavier than alive," said Morgan.

"Um, okay well – she can't believe he's gonna spare the baby if she does what she's told," said Emily, thinking it through.

"A ruse, then?" Grace asked.

"The question is, how did he get in?" Rossi asked; Grace turned.

"Beth must have let him in – I mean she had to," said Reid, leaning against the counter.

Grace nodded.

"She must have known her attacker – someone she'd feel comfortable letting in the house with the baby and someone she was comfortable letting get close enough to…"

"To what?"

Grace shrugged.

"Magically incapacitate her while somehow leaving no trace?" she finished, almost snappily. "I don't know."

Both Morgan and Emily picked up on her tone and she shook herself.

"Sorry."

She sighed.

"They all did," Rossi realised.

"Huh?" Morgan asked, hopping up the last few steps and joining them in the kitchen.

Emily was right behind him.

"They all let him in."

"So she fixes them drinks, he drugs her," said Emily, with some urgency. "That's gotta be it."

She opened her phone to call Garcia.

"There was nothing on the tox' screen," Reid pointed out.

"Not everything shows up on a tox' screen," said Grace.

The husband stalked past them, effectively interrupting their discussion. His face was tight with distress as he carried an unhappy-but-coping toddler on his shoulder, JJ trailing after them with a soft toy, trying to make this awful day marginally easier. They would have to leave them soon, to one of Pittsburgh Police Department's family liaison officers, but until they did, JJ would be their shadow.

They came close enough to Grace for the little boy to make a spirited grab for her hair; he missed by miles, leaving behind that strange, earthy, soap-and-apple-juice smell that young babies seemed to share.

She gritted her teeth and returned her gaze to the noose. Somehow, just at the moment, that was easier to look at.

Unexpectedly, a hand grazed the centre of her back, momentarily steadying her. By the time she'd turned to look, Reid was already down the front steps of the house and halfway across the front yard. She glanced at her colleagues; the movement had been so subtle and so quick that none of them had noticed.

Her eyes followed him for a moment, wondering whether his apparent crush shifted the meaning of these gentle acts of comfort – and what the hell she was supposed to do about it if it did. The simplicity of their rather odd friendship was one of the things she treasured about it, and she wasn't ready to mess with that; nor was she prepared to give that friendship up.

She had had workplace relationships before and they had been disastrous.

Huffing in annoyance at her knack for getting into trouble, she set off down the path after him, aiming determinedly for the other SUV.

0o0

All in all, this was turning out to be a difficult day.

With the newest suicide on their hands, along with trying to pin down which deaths were suicides and which (if any) were not, the team was rushed off their feet – and still one man down.

Spencer frowned down at the handwriting samples in front of him. He'd managed to snatch a few minutes without Detective Baleman staring over his shoulder to study them. The man meant well, but his nervous energy and determination to prove that his brother was murdered was incredibly distracting.

There was something off about the samples, but anything more definite was escaping him.

Light footsteps approached the doorway and stopped abruptly; someone huffed in annoyance. He turned around in time to catch Grace's eye-roll, apparently directed at his back. She quickly rearranged her features into something more friendly, though, and joined him at the table.

Spencer watched her pick through the handwriting samples out of the corner of his eye, wondering whether she had been hoping to avoid him. Had he said something tactless again without realising it? He didn't like to think that she was annoyed with him; it made his stomach hurt.

He had a horrible feeling that this had something to do with his slip about how beautiful she was. That had been a thought that should never have escaped his mouth, and now it had he was afraid that she knew – and that (as he had suspected) she didn't like him that way.

He hadn't really expected anything different – he had long-since made peace with the fact that he wasn't most women's idea of a good catch – but the idea that he'd upset her bothered him.

"Um…" he said, breaking the silence but keeping his gaze on the samples, embarrassed. "Are – are you okay?"

"What?" she asked, sounding a little short. "Yes, of course I am."

He nodded; worried his lip.

"Are _we_ … okay?"

Some of the worry must have shown on his face because Grace glanced up at him and then smiled, suddenly becoming the friendly creature he had become accustomed to.

"'Course we are," she assured him, with a small laugh. "Bloody profilers."

She was lying, he thought, but he appreciated the effort. Fire and babies in one case were not making for a happy ex-Londoner.

"I thought maybe I said something – you know… how do you put it? 'Incredibly accurate and utterly stupid'?"

Grace snorted.

"No, your tact filter is functioning properly today – I'm just grumpy. Ignore me."

"Okay."

He must have sounded uncertain, because he found himself being jostled in the shoulder in a mischievous kind of way. He couldn't help but chuckle. Grace subsided, satisfied, and they worked silently for a minute or two, side by side.

"Thanks, by the way," she said quietly, most of her attention on the papers on the desk. "For – well, looking after me earlier."

Spencer brushed it off with a light shrug.

"That's what friends are for, right?"

They shared a smile.

"Where's – uh – where's Agent Jareau?" Detective Baleman asked, his nervous energy propelling him into the room at speed.

"She's still with the Smolers," Grace explained. "It'll be a little while before they're done at the scene and she wanted to make sure they weren't railroaded by the media."

Baleman nodded, satisfied.

"Good. That's good."

He eyed the letters as if they were a personal insult to him, determinedly avoiding the picture of his brother which was pinned to the murder board against the wall. Spencer knew Grace well enough to know that she was assessing their colleague with something of a worried air. He wondered when Baleman had last slept.

He suspected she was weighing how much of a liability the man could be to their case if they weren't keeping a close eye on him.

"Is there anything in any of these?" Grace asked, diplomatically shifting her attention. "Are they suicides?"

Spencer pulled a sheaf of papers towards them; Detective Baleman peered over Grace's shoulder.

"These are some samples from Diedre Knoller, the jumper," he told them. "Let's see, we have an insurance form, a letter she wrote to her neighbour a month ago, a birthday card she wrote to her husband a week ago and her suicide note, found on her body."

"The suicide note matches, right?" Baleman asked.

Spencer winced.

"It's definitely by her own hand, but she's professing regret – look…" he pulled it onto the lightbox he'd been using to make comparisons. "'I'm sorry', 'I let you down', 'Please forgive me', 'I've disappointed you', and so on."

"Almost what you'd write in a suicide note, but not," Grace observed.

"Exactly. And the handwriting – the forensic analysis is saying the exact opposite," he continued. "You see how the handwriting slants uphill? It's a clear sign of optimism – same with how the spacing is so consistent. And these long t-bars… those indicate an enthusiastic person."

"Not someone who would take a swan dive off a five storey walk-up," Detective Baleman nodded.

"Not willingly," said Grace. She looked up at the detective's expression. "You know, even if we had alerted the media we probably couldn't have saved Beth Smoler – or Diedre Knoller, and we might have driven their killer underground."

"Now we'll never know," said Baleman, aloof but determined. He clearly wasn't in the mood for pandering to them – or for recriminations. "Like I said, that's on me. But hey, now we have the proof that these aren't suicides."

Spencer frowned. That wasn't entirely true. They had enough for reasonable doubt, but –

"Those notes, were they coerced?" Baleman asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"Uh… if you were to force someone to write their own suicide note, these are words you generally wouldn't use –"

"I'll take that as a no."

"He didn't actually say –" Grace interjected.

"And my brother's journal?"

Spencer stuttered. It was a long document and what he had read didn't bode well.

"I haven't even – it's an extensive – I haven't had –"

Baleman cut him off.

"Another no."

Grace crossed her arms, frowning.

"Detective – if you aren't going to listen to us –" she began, but he continued to talk over her.

"Can we inform the media now?"

"JJ already has," said Grace after a moment, sounding irritated.

It struck Spencer that she might have said more, but she was interrupted by Morgan, who knocked on the partition wall.

"We need you all outside," he said.

Spencer followed him, glad that whatever his friend had been about to say had been curtailed. A grumpy Grace was not the kind of Grace who should be allowed to converse with slightly unhinged and grieving members of a local police force – not if she didn't want to be censured.

He glanced at her and she narrowed her eyes at him, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. He gave her arm a nudge, a subtle warning, and she entirely failed to keep the smile from sliding up one side of her face.

 _I know, I know_ , her expression seemed to say. _Keep your pants on, I'll behave – if he does._

It was pleasantly warm outside, and fresh; the police department had been stuffy and close. A pow-wow outside was just what they needed to refresh their tired brains.

Hotch and Rossi were pacing by the edge of the building, a little way down the street; Emily and JJ, fresh from the crime scene, joined them from the other direction. Hotch looked exhausted, but it was good to see him. Even Grace relaxed a little.

"This is SSA Aaron Hotchner, he's just arrived," said Rossi, introducing the detective.

"What've we got?" Hotch asked.

"Including extended families, over one hundred individuals within the Pittsburgh area were affected by that fire," Rossi explained.

He had clearly been catching Hotch up while they waited.

"So this unsub is targeting grief," Hotch reflected, looking as disgusted as they all felt.

"Grief?" Baleman queried.

"An event," Spencer clarified. "Uh – a single event in this unsub's life led him to end the life of someone he believed had to die. From that moment on he created his own sense of morality – what is right and what is wrong. He rationalises what he did – that first kill – over and over again by targeting people that he believes can't be saved by anyone other than himself. He decides who lives and who dies and this gives him an all-consuming sense of power."

"A god complex – gee it would be nice if we didn't have one of those every other month," Grace groused; out of the corner of his eye he saw Emily stand on her foot. Grace glanced in her direction and subsided.

"And they're not gonna stop any time soon," Baleman realised.

"Well that's assuming there's someone to actually stop," Morgan put in.

"Really?" Grace asked, voicing the rest of the team's thoughts. "Still?"

Morgan gave her a withering look.

"Well if there is, he's convinced he's on a mission of mercy," said Hotch darkly. "And even after he's caught he'll maintain he did nothing wrong."

"He?" Baleman asked.

"White male, mid- to late thirties," Rossi described. "He's polite, forthcoming, doesn't stand out – and we believe his victims, these families, are all letting him in."

Baleman frowned.

"My brother, his wife – they weren't letting anyone in," he said. "If anything they were closing themselves off."

Spencer frowned. That had been the impression he'd got from the journal, too.

"Well, he's found a way in," said Rossi. "One that's very hard to trace."

"In every case there was no evidence of a struggle," said Morgan, "no attempt at escapes."

"He finds a personal connection and uses it to buy time," Hotch theorised.

"He has to be someone you'd trust – someone you know, or…" Grace stopped, and glanced up at Baleman.

Spencer could see where she was coming from: he wasn't going to like where this was headed.

"My officers need to know this," he said.

Hotch's expression shifted minutely.

"We've found," he said carefully, "that angels of mercy are often people in the medical profession, as well as law enforcement."

"Cops," spat Baleman, in obvious disbelief.

"Which is why we're meeting out here," Emily explained.

"Now, we're only fishing – we don't wanna point a finger," Rossi assured him.

"Point it," said Baleman firmly. "I don't give a damn."

"If that's what it's about, let us find out where to point it," Hotch reasoned.

After a moment's careful consideration, Baleman nodded. Relieved that he was finally listening again, Spencer addressed him:

"I asked Garcia to check into emergency responders who were on the scene of the fire."

"Good," said Hotch. "Prentiss?"

"He's smart," she said. "He knows all about these people's schedules, their routines."

"He's stalking them," JJ surmised.

"Look if this unsub does exist," said Morgan, "this is a guy who's all about control. He chooses how they die, when they die. He even positions them exactly how he wants them. That makes him hypervigilant – he's always on the lookout, risk averse, unseen."

"The only way to stop him is to find out how he's managed to get into all of his victims' lives," Emily said.

"We figure that out, we've got our killer," Rossi concluded.

"Who do you let in after losing a child?" Spencer asked, thoughtfully.

The question hadn't been directly addressed to her, but Grace answered anyway – from her own, dark experience. He glanced at her; nothing in her body language had altered. You wouldn't know that this whole case was hard on her without very close observation, and thankfully none of the others had attention to spare just now.

"Doctor, therapist, occupational health, support group," she postulated, ticking them off on her fingers one by one.

He wondered how she had managed, caught in that terrible round of well-meaning people forcing you to relive something you would much rather bury.

"Support group…" Spencer frowned. Now what was it about those letters that seemed familiar? "Guys, those letters… they all have the same type of tone – it's uncanny."

"And you're saying they all wrote them willingly?" Emily asked.

"None of them are forced, and they all express regret, but none of them ever say goodbye," Spencer explained, searching for meaning. "It's like they're not meant for anybody, not for a wife or a kid…"

"Then who are they writing them to?" Hotch asked, gently pushing him towards a memory.

"Themselves – they're amends," Spencer realised, suddenly. "Amends to themselves – and I believe they're written as part of a program – maybe part of a support group."

He glanced at Grace, who averted her gaze. What with the loss of her son and father, and his recent addiction to Dilaudid, support groups were possibly a thing they had in common.

"Program?" Morgan questioned.

"Uh – the five stages of grief," he explained, hurriedly. "In – uh – some self-help groups they ask you to write down an amends," he said, and then realised that almost his entire team were staring at him, all of them knowing exactly how he knew that. He looked down, unable to meet anyone's gaze. "To – to yourself…"

"Is that right?" Emily asked, and her tone was different now – that of a concerned friend.

Spencer squirmed.

Hotch, ever the solid leader, broke the uncomfortable scrutiny, shifting their focus back to the present.

"We need to start bringing people in – find the connection," he said, and began splitting them all into small teams.

0o0

Talking with the bereaved families had been very hard indeed.

Grace had been paired with Hotch, which was good because he actually believed there was an unsub, but tricky because he was an incredibly talented and perspicacious profiler, even when his mind was on the wife and son he was terrified of losing for good.

All of them had been distraught at the idea of someone taking advantage of their grief – losing their children had been difficult enough. To know that they were actively being targeted was to rub salt in an already raw wound.

Most of them were fairly calm and understanding about this further intrusion into their lives (the last thing they needed was another death) but Grace could feel their fear, bubbling under the surface. A few had been on the edge of hysterics, barely keeping it together even before finding out their support community had a serial killer in its midst.

There had only been two who might have been characterised as being dangerously close to the edge, in one way or another: a woman that Emily and JJ had interviewed who couldn't bring herself even to touch her remaining child and a single father who had three grieving children and was clearly surviving on about one hour's sleep.

She had a horrible feeling that either one could be next. The eldest of the man's three daughters had been keeping an unobtrusive ear on the conversation, and Grace suspected that anyone coming to their home from now on would be very seriously vetted. It was a start, anyway.

Hotch had the look of a man ready to shoot somebody by the end of the interviews, so she left him in the side room they'd been using and went in search of coffee for him. If she hadn't, she was pretty sure that he'd be grilling her about her lack of brain-to-speech filter today. That was one conversation she could do without.

Emily was lurking by the coffee machine as well, rubbing the back of her neck in frustration.

"Hey," she said, and sighed.

"Yeah," said Grace. "I'm going to assume from that you have as much as we do."

She busied herself with the coffee pot, settling for juice when hot water for tea was unforthcoming.

"This guy is…"

"Elusive?"

"A pain in the ass."

Grace chuckled.

"Hey," Emily began, slowly. Grace was aware she was watching her along her shoulder. "You seemed a little… tense earlier – you okay?"

 _Great._

"Yeah," she huffed, tiredly. "It's just this case, you know? Losing a child has got to be one of the most hideous, gut-wrenching kinds of pain a person can go through, and to think there's someone out there preying on that?"

She shook her head, looking away.

"Thanks for giving me a nudge earlier."

"Hey we all have bad cases," Emily smiled, clapping her on the shoulder. She frowned and put on Morgan's Chicago accent. "You know, assumin' there's an unsub."


	4. Never Trust an Angel

**Essential listening: Politik, by Coldplay**

0o0

Penelope Garcia, surrounded by the accoutrements of her vibrant mind, deep in her tech' cave at the heart of Quantico, span around on her chair, pleased to find the information she had been looking for. Not so pleased about what it meant, however.

Some days, being a warrior for karma was not much fun.

She hit speed dial on her phone; Morgan picked up after only one ring.

"Hey, hot stuff," he said, with the sound of loudspeaker clicking on. "Talk to me."

He hadn't warned her to be polite (a necessary evil after the debacle with Strauss) so she figured it was safe to tease him a little. It was probably only their team around anyway, and they knew what she was like.

"Prentiss was looking for some narcotics, my burning love hunk, and I scored – humungously," she declared. "I ran every toxicological panel known to man on the victims and came up with zilch, which means he must be knocking them out with a neuro-muscular agent."

"With a what?" Morgan asked.

"A paralytic," Rossi explained.

"Yeah, yeah, something like Succinylcholine or Vecuronium," Penelope told them. "One of those ones that would metabolize in the body so quickly it wouldn't be detectable. Plus, plus, also, and _I_ called me up Mr Coroner and said, 'How would you do this?' And he says, 'By injection'. So I say, 'Hey guy, wouldn't that leave a mark?' And he's all, 'Hold up!' And then he goes and looks at Beth Smoler's body and finds the mark! A hole – right in her hairline."

"Okay, so you'd have to be in the medical profession to get a hold of those drugs, right?" Morgan asked, sounding surprised.

"Nn – not necessarily," Garcia said. "You can get almost anything online these days."

"This drug leaves no trace," said Morgan.

"None."

Rossi sighed, frustrated.

"Even if a coroner was lookin' for something the evidence was gone," he marvelled. "And Beth Smoler didn't see anything coming."

Penelope's heart dropped.

"No sir," she said, hesitantly. She didn't want to make this worse than it already was, but they had to know. "She completely saw it coming. They _all_ saw it coming. Uh – neuromuscular blockers paralyse the muscles temporarily, while you remain very much awake."

There were two sharp intakes of breath on the other end of the line.

"He sedates them, then quickly engineers their suicide," Rossi postulated.

"Well if that's true it means this unsubs not lookin' for the glory of the kill," Morgan reasoned.

"No," said Rossi, heavily. "But unfortunately for our victims they're wide awake when he decides it's time for them to move on."

0o0

There were too many self-help groups in Pittsburgh. There were ninety one in one day, even just in the area adjacent to the rec' centre. Across the city, meeting at all hours of the day, for all kinds of reasons – and the worst part was that by their very nature they were all totally anonymous.

Really, if there hadn't been a killer to catch, Grace would have been deeply impressed by it all – all this help within reach if people needed it. It was heartening.

They had run the profile by as many groups as they could, though some were more willing to help than others.

The guy they were looking for was confident, earnest, forthcoming – all in all, the kind of guy you would trust and build up a rapport with. He fit into the groups because he had a tragic past, the trauma that had led him to take his first life, and his ticket into each of these groups. The only thing that seemed to ring a bell with anyone was the mention of suicide.

Not that unusual for a self-help community, but talked about so much in recent weeks that it had a couple of the leaders of the groups worried.

Worried was good.

Worried meant they were paying attention.

Worried meant they had a name.

"This guy stood up and told a story about his brother," Rossi explained.

They had reconvened in the small ante-room that they were using as an incident room in the police department, comparing notes from a morning spent grilling support group leaders. The latest suicide had even the die-hards of the department rattled – especially when they'd found the tell-tale injection mark behind the poor guy's ear. Even Morgan had stopped questioning the existence of the unsub, which was something of a relief all round.

"His family was so poor –" Rossi continued, but Hotch cut him off.

"They shared the same bedroom until they were fifteen," he finished, nodding.

"We heard the same story," Morgan chipped in.

"He's moving from group to group," said JJ. "Repeating it."

"He said his name was Peter," Rossi went on. "His dad was a professor at Brassard. They were just kids, slept in separate beds. He describes how his father would come and climb into his brother's bed and molest him. The worst part of it is that he pretended to be asleep while it happened."

"He was protecting himself," Grace concluded. "Later the guilt of not helping his brother drove him to 'help' these other people."

"If it's true, it could be what started our unsub on his mission of mercy," Hotch reflected, leaning over the evidence amassed on the table.

"It certainly didn't end well," said Rossi, thoughtfully. "At least not for –" He checked his notes. "James, the elder brother."

"He committed suicide," Reid said. "Right in front of him."

"He said he looked him in the eye and he knew he just had to let him go," JJ added. "That's what started all this."

Grace nodded and called Garcia, feeling that the keeper of the portal of all knowledge should be in on this. She put the phone on speaker and dropped it on the table, not even bothering with pleasantries.

"Okay, so we've got two names," Emily said. "James and Peter."

"And a university, Brassard," Hotch put it.

"Well, that should make it easier for you, Garcia," JJ reflected.

There was no sound from the phone for several moments but the furious typing they associated with a dedicated person search. She wasn't wasting time with speech today; this guy had obviously pissed her off.

Given her association with support groups, Grace could see why.

"If the unsub's father really taught at Brassard, chances are he's local," Rossi hypothesised.

"Uh –" Spencer began, and then paused.

Everyone glanced up at him; he was frowning pensively at his notes. Clearly something was bothering him.

"Reid?" Hotch asked.

"Angels of mercy – uh – they repeat the same event over and over again," he said, darkly.

"What're you gettin' at?" Morgan asked him.

"Well, if – as you said – the story's true then he's leaving one key piece of information out. Uh – the event that started it all."

Hotch nodded, coming to the same realisation.

"His brother didn't kill himself," he said.

"Peter did!" Emily exclaimed, horrified.

Grace gaped at them. That changed everything – no wonder he couldn't stop. Each time he killed was a rationalisation of murdering his own brother. Putting him out of his misery.

"The fire caused such grief and suffering it became a trigger," Spencer theorised.

"Unable to stop himself, he targets someone he believes needs his help," Morgan agreed, with a sigh.

Emily nodded.

"At first he keeps to some kind of timeline, a few weeks," said Spencer, assessing their timeline. "But the last two kills were within days."

 _Well that's not good._

"He's devolving," said Rossi.

"And quickly," Grace added.

"I got it," said Garcia, via speakerphone. "It's from 1984, Brassard college university newspaper."

"Garcia – they lived on campus?" Emily asked.

"Yeah. It says here James Redding was the youngest suicide in Pennsylvanian history," Garcia told them. "And his father, Charles Redding, was a professor. Creep!"

"Uh – is there any possibility that while we've been talking, you've been multitasking?" Emily asked.

Grace altered her stance slightly; if there was any chance they knew where this guy was they'd need to go as soon as they could. If he was devolving as rapidly as they suspected there could be more corpses by the time the day was out.

"What, and tracked down his current address?" Garcia asked, innocently.

"That's our girl," Grace murmured, sharing a grin with Morgan.

"I love you, Penelope Garcia," Emily laughed.

"Get in line!" she exclaimed, and promptly hung up.

0o0o0o0

The jet was quiet – not restful, exactly, not after a case like this, but no longer tense, at least.

In the seats nearest to the kitchenette, Emily and Morgan were quietly going over the day's events. Hashing the whole thing out and trying to find a meaning to their work. Grace left them to it. She'd had enough of soul-searching for one day.

Grace yawned, swirling the hot water in her mug, waiting for the tea to steep. She shouldn't agitate it, she knew, but she was tired and impatient, and still a little grumpy from the case. At least no one had asked her to look at the autopsy photos of the kids in the fire this time.

Taking a small mercy where she could get one, she tried to massage the cramp out of her neck.

After the takedown (not the smoothest they'd ever had, but not the worst, either) there had been a large volume of paperwork to manage, along with the expectations of a rather bewildered police force who were all pretty embarrassed that they'd been denying the existence of this guy for several weeks.

The team had been spread out after that, working through their notes, making sure every member of the department and the DA's office knew exactly how to prosecute such a clever murderer – and one who believed absolutely that he had done nothing wrong.

"Hey," said Morgan, appearing behind her with a couple of empty mugs.

"Hey."

"Sorry I was such a –" He grinned. "I shoulda listened to you guys sooner."

Grace smirked.

"You should always listen to us," she teased. "I hear we're the best profilers on the planet, you know."

Morgan snorted.

"But seriously, if there wasn't someone playing Devil's Advocate from time to time we'd miss stuff like this," she said. "Keeps us on our toes. Imagine if it had been the other way around and you'd been the only one willing to listen."

"Good thing it wasn't," he reflected, making a coffee.

You could tell they were on their way home, Grace thought, even just by checking what coffee was brewing. On the way in it was just that little bit better than standard (FBI agents without coffee were a terrifying thing to behold), on the way home it was decaffeinated all the way. They had sleep to catch up on.

"You mind if I ask you somethin'?" he said, breaking a train of thought involving conducting research on caffeine addiction in emergency service personnel.

"Shoot," she said.

"What got you rattled about this one?" he asked, leaning against the counter. "I know it got to Emily, too. You're both tough cookies – what gives?"

Grace gave him an appraising look.

"Honestly? It wasn't so much the case this time – though it's not how I'd prefer to spend my day."

"The fire?" he guessed, watching her face closely.

Grace smiled, happy that the people around her cared for one another. The unconscious profiling was annoying, but it was who they were.

"Yeah. I just got to thinking about how vulnerable I was after my dad died," she told him, which wasn't entirely a lie. "Is it bad that I'm glad that woman tried to take the guy out when she figured out what he was up to?"

Morgan shrugged.

"I don't know," he said. "Not if she was trying to take herself out at the same time."

Grace nodded, sadly. She'd heard the conversation Emily had had with her; the woman's insistence that she couldn't feel anything anymore.

"If she really meant to hurt herself, she would have done a better job of ramming her car into that shed," she said. "The subconscious is a powerful thing. No – there's a big difference between being numb and exhausted and actually taking your own life. I saw her face when she stepped on the accelerator. She was seriously pissed. Seriously pissed is the first step to being okay."

"Hmm."

It was Morgan's turn to appraise.

"That thing that wasn't so much the case?" he asked, letting it hang in the air.

Grace laughed.

"Garcia's right, profilers are a pain in the arse."

"Come on, Grace, spill. You know I don't let go of things."

"And I wouldn't have you any other way," she told him, patting his arm. "It's –" she sighed and decided to take a chance. "I have this friend, and I think they have a crush on me."

Morgan's eyebrows rose up his head like caterpillars on a trampoline.

"I know, I know – very teen drama queen, right?" she said. "But they're a close friend – maybe my closest friend – and I just don't think about them like that."

"You don't wanna stop bein' their friend," he nodded, understanding. "You talk to him about it?"

"What makes you think it's a he?" Grace smirked, and Morgan laughed. "No. I don't want to hurt him. And I don't want him to like me like that."

Morgan laughed.

"I don't think you get a choice about that, 007."

"True."

"Look," he said, "does it matter if this guy likes you? It doesn't sound like you're leadin' him on, or makin' him think you like him, so what's the problem? Just be his friend."

"I'm not sure it's that simple," she reflected, doubtfully.

"It's as simple as you make it," he told her. "If you still wanna be his friend, then be his friend – if he makes a move, turn him down."

"But –"

"If he likes you, he likes you – you can't do anythin' about that. But you _can_ keep bein' his friend."

"Thanks, _Oprah_ ," she joshed, making him grin again.

Morgan gave her a hug.

"It's – uh – no one I know, right?" he asked, with a pointed glance in the direction of the far bank of seats where Reid was doing one of his impossible crosswords. Grace had been ready for the question, so she was sure he believed her when she laughed.

"Hah, no. No one you know."

She punched his arm and recaptured her tea.

"You don't make a bad big brother," she said. "Remind me to thank your sisters next time they're in town for doing such a good job with your training."

She left him chuckling in the kitchenette and picked up Emily's fallen bookmark as she passed, depositing it on the table. Her friend looked up, giving her a nod of thanks before returning her eyes (if not her attention) to the page.

Grace continued past her, wondering how it always seemed to be, these days, that the only free seats on the jet were next to Spencer.

Morgan was right – there was no point worrying about if Reid's crush was a serious something or not. She would just have to accept it and try not to accidentally lead him on. Something she feared she wasn't particularly good at.

And possibly try to re-educate his taste in women; there were much nicer, much better candidates out there than her, far more worthy of his attention.

She settled in the seat beside him, careful not to disturb JJ, who was already asleep.

Across from them, in their own world of files and reports, Hotch and Rossi were having a heartfelt conversation of their own, which everyone else was duly ignoring. That was the thing about the jet – with the exception of those few occasions where the majority of the team were asleep, everyone did their best to pretend they couldn't hear one another in what was actually a very small room. It would have been impossible to have a private conversation any other way.

From the sound of it, Hotch's son had been the charming, wise creature Grace had always suspected him to be, even trying to make his dad feel better about the whole thing. Comforted, she pulled out her book, sparing a look for Spencer.

Grace frowned.

His crossword puzzle (which usually took him under twenty minutes) was entirely empty, though he had been steadily gazing at it for the last half hour.

Aware that the jet was not necessarily the best place for a heart to heart, she stared at him until he noticed, and then continued to stare until he figured out she wasn't going to stop until he told her what was going on.

"I just – we had to tell Detective Baleman that his brother wasn't one of Redding's victims," he whispered, sadly. "And he didn't believe us, even though the psychological autopsy, the journal, his behaviour at home – everything pointed to suicide."

"Denial," said Grace, gloomily. "Not just a river in Egypt…"

"I know. I just – I wish we coulda helped him, you know?"

"We helped a lot of other people," she pointed out.

He frowned, and she narrowed her eyes.

"You can't start keeping score, Spencer – that way madness lies."

"I know," he conceded. "But –" He paused, glancing at JJ. "I can't help thinking – Ryan Phillips, Chester Hardwick, Ronnie Baleman – we failed them all, in a way."

"Nobody in our generation failed Chester Hardwick. He beat nineteen people to death before either of us was in high school," she argued. "And from the sounds of it you gave him a little bit of closure – even if you were profiling for your life at the time."

"And Ryan Phillips?"

Grace looked down for a moment. She still hadn't made her peace with her conscience over wanting that bastard dead, and said so.

"He was a kid," Spencer complained.

"Yes," she said. "And he died right in front of you, and you tried to save him even though you knew what he had done to that little girl. We can't win them all."

His expression was conflicted: knowing that she was right and wishing that she wasn't.

"It's not fair," he said, quietly.

"Whoever said life should be fair?" she asked, and sipped her tea.

He was quiet for a moment, but she could tell it was still weighing heavily on him.

"Where does that leave us?" he asked, eventually, glaring around the jet – though most of its inhabitants were behind him. "Any of us?"

Grace frowned, hearing a nihilistic edge in his usually carefree voice.

"Confused, a bit battered and wary of the same thing happening again?" she suggested. Catching sight of his face, she shook her head. "Look, this isn't the kind of job where you go home at night and sleep easily – we both know that, right?"

"Right…" he frowned, wondering where this was going.

"So you have to face that some days are going to leave us feeling helpless."

There was a pause.

"If this is supposed to be cheering me up," he said, eyeing her expression darkly. "It's not working."

Grace laughed, sadly.

"Truth isn't often cheerful," she told him, and he smiled slightly, despite himself. "But I'll tell you something that might help."

"What?"

She took his hand beneath the table, where none of their co-workers could get the wrong impression.

"You don't have to face any of it alone."

This time his smile was more genuine, if tired. He glanced down for a moment, lacing his fingers with hers, then:

"Neither do you."

Grace smiled and rested her head against his shoulder while he looked out across the cloudy, brilliant sunset they were racing above.

Morgan had been wrong. None of this – whatever _this_ was – was simple.

0o0

 _The most authentic thing about us is our capacity to create, to overcome, to endure, to transform, to love and to be greater than our suffering._

Ben Okri


	5. Elephant's Memory

**Essential listening: The Man Comes Around, by Johnny Cash**

 **0o0**

It was the first meeting of this kind he had been to, though there had been other, less public groups when he had first managed to stop. Their last case, while horrifying on a basic, human level, had reminded him that help was out there if he needed it.

And after Ryan Phillips, he needed it.

He had convinced himself that he was doing okay – and he was, in the grand scheme of things – but recently he had felt the need for more support. Up until now he had turned to Grace, who had let him in at any and all hours and watched bad sci-fi shows or British panel shows she found on the internet, or explored the nearby all-night food places, or just sat up and done nothing, talking or knitting or crocheting. She had been very patient, despite barely knowing him at first – even more so now she was probably his closest friend.

But she had her own problems, her own demons. She didn't need to be playing wing-woman with his, too. Her keen understanding that things don't heal overnight, which had so amazed and disarmed him, had come from bitter experience. She needed time to heal, just as he did.

This was the next best thing.

The man who was currently speaking – a beat cop from Washington proper – began to wind up his story. He had been an alcoholic, and it had very nearly cost him his family and his badge, but for a push by his partner he wouldn't have been there at all.

Spencer was a little in awe of these people, who had conquered so much. He only hoped that he would be as strong when his demons came calling.

They asked for the next speaker; he got up and walked to the front, keenly aware that – as ever – he was the youngest person in the room. He stood before the podium, with some trepidation, and looked out over a sea of faces. Their expressions were open, not judging, no expectations.

It heartened him a little.

He knew he had to do this.

The applause died down and he cleared his throat.

"Hi – um," he said, and swallowed, hoping his voice didn't sound as small to them as it did to him. "My name's – uh – Spencer and I'm –" he paused, floundering. "I don't really know what I am…"

"Hello, Spencer," the room chorused, congratulating him on getting that far through his sentence.

"This is my – this is my first meeting," he continued, haltingly.

"Welcome," they chanted.

He frowned, looking down. He was momentarily seized by the ridiculous notion that he was starring in a b-movie with robots or the living dead, and this was how they indoctrinated people.

 _Coping Cops of the Living Dead._

The observation had occurred to him in something that sounded a lot like Grace's voice; he pushed it away, deciding he would tell her about it later (if he could make himself tell anyone about this) and see what she made of it.

 _Check the back room for robes and dribbly candles…_

A vision of her roaring with laughter sprung to mind and he gave an awkward smile, comforted.

"Thanks, thank you," he said. "Um…"

He stared down at the sign in front of him: _Beltway Clean Cops_. It remained a sign, nothing more, and didn't inspire him further.

"I guess I… well, I know I had – uh – a problem with Dilaudid."

Even now, the word wouldn't come out without making his throat feel tight.

"But, um, I stopped."

He nodded, mostly to himself. He _had_ stopped. That, apparently, had been the easy part. It certainly hadn't felt easy at the time. He resting the tips of his fingers on the table top in front of him, needing something steady, solid.

"Like, ten months ago, I stopped. I thought it was over, but, recently – um – I've really been… Your literature uses the term 'craving'." He paused, feeling strangely breathless. He hadn't realised this would be so much of a struggle. "It started, like, a month ago – I," he frowned again, swallowing. "A s-suspect was murdered in front of me – uh –a kid."

Several of the members of the group were nodding now, as if they understood. They probably did. They'd probably been through exactly the same thing.

"And I thought that I could save the kid, but I couldn't, and…" he stopped again, trying to form a useful sentence about how that had nearly brought the whole thing crashing down again.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed: JJ. They had a case. He turned it off, hastily; the team could wait ten more minutes.

"Excuse me – I'm sorry," he excused himself, but he needn't have worried.

Everyone in this small, airy room was law enforcement. If anyone understood about being called in in the middle of something, they would.

"I've seen a lot of that stuff before, but for some reason that kid's face has really uh… stuck in my brain." He gave a hollow sort of chuckle. "You know? It's really – uh… I can't… and I… I wanna forget. About him and – I just wanna escape."

The phone buzzed again and he checked it: JJ again.

"I'm sorry," he apologised.

 _Must be a bad one_ , he thought.

"I have to go, I'm sorry," he said, texting JJ back as he left the hall at some speed.

It wasn't until he was out in the porch, where the stained glass of the community library painted coloured diamonds on the concrete arches of the building, that he realised he was being followed.

"Spencer," someone called.

"Sorry, I'm –I'm late," he said, over his shoulder, still walking, expecting the other man to give up, but he didn't.

"Places to go, people to profile," he said, and Spencer paused, letting him catch up.

He was astonished to see the man approaching; he was a legend in profiling circles, and though he had been promoted out of the BAU for some time Spencer recognised him immediately. He was chief to another section at Quantico – same building, but slightly different tactics. Spencer had seen him lecture.

He'd spotted him at the back of the hall when he'd first walked in, but had assumed that the anonymity that he was hoping would shield him if he ever met any of these people professionally should also extend to this man.

Worried that he'd been caught out (his addiction had never officially been reported), he waited for him to speak.

"You know who I am?" the senior agent asked, making sure.

"Of course I do, sir, I just – I didn't – um – expect to see a man… in your position… here," he stammered, aware that he probably wasn't helping himself a great deal.

The other man nodded.

"Here, there are no 'sirs'. I'm just John here." He gave spencer a look. "This is not something you talk about at the office – especially _our_ office."

Spencer nodded, a little relieved to know where they stood.

His phone buzzed again, ringing this time: JJ getting impatient, trying to hurry all her agents back for another horrifying series of murders.

"Sorry," he said. "I really do have to go."

John nodded, understanding. He reached into his pocket and took out a coin. Spencer tried not to grimace – he was going to be in so much trouble if he was much later, and then there would be questions, but he couldn't just leave midway through a conversation, not with this man.

He wasn't sure if he could cope with anyone other than Grace knowing about the meeting (on the team at least), and even then he'd planned to tell her on his own terms

"Take this," John told him, holding out the coin. "That's my one-year medallion. Took me six years to get it."

Spencer held the hard-won thing in his hand, puzzled.

"For the past thirteen years I've never left home without it," said John. "Because I know if I forget that I'll lose my gun, my credentials, my home – everything."

Spencer nodded. He understood that feeling well enough. It was a fear that woke him, on the nights he could sleep. A future without the BAU… it was unthinkable.

"Hold onto it," John told him.

Spencer frowned.

"I only have ten months," he said.

John nodded.

"I know."

"It's your most prized possession…"

 _And you barely know me._

"It is."

"You're just giving it to me?" Spencer asked, baffled.

"No," said John, which immediately made him feel a little better, if not less confused. "Couple of months, when you get your year, you give it back to me."

He made to leave, and Spencer stared after him

"I really don't understand," he called.

John paused and turned back for a moment.

"You will."

Spencer shook his head, wondering what the seasoned agent meant. There wasn't time to dwell on it now. He hurried away, the section chief's one year medallion weighing cold and heavy in his hand.

0o0

He hadn't had his car with him and he'd had to run almost the whole way from the AMTRACK. The rest of the team were already assembled in the incident room, probably halfway through the briefing.

God he hated being late.

It made him the centre of attention, and that scared him. Scrutiny unnerved him at the best of times, but when it was a room full of BAU agents who knew him as well as they did, it was downright terrifying.

There was an inferno on the screen, among the remains of what looked like someone's trailer.

"Officer Letts shot this just before he was killed," said JJ, pointing at it.

She spotted him and waited for him to get inside. Convinced that they would be able to read exactly where he had been, right off his face, he ducked his head down, apologising as he went.

"Sorry I'm late."

"I hope she was worth it," Rossi teased.

"I hope it was a she," Morgan put in, with a smirk.

Spencer pulled a file towards him and brushed them off.

"Um, sorry, I was at the movies."

"Oh really, why don't you tell us what it was about?" Rossi invited.

As anxious as he was, Spencer entirely missed the sarcasm.

"Um, I had to leave early, so I can't really tell…"

He stopped, realising they were all staring at him, even Grace. They'd been teasing him. Confused and hoping he didn't look nearly as guilty as he felt, he looked down at the file in front of him.

"I know it's late, I know we're tired, but we've got two dead cops," said Hotch, prowling around the table and effectively bringing the roomful of tired, slightly grouchy agents to order.

"Right," said JJ, pulling out a photo. "The resident, Rod Norris, was DOA. They're still trying to ID the remains of the second victim, whom they believe is his sixteen year old daughter, Jordan."

She held up another picture, of a happy, smiling young woman. There was a collective grimace.

"From the condition of the remains she would have been inside the house, close to the source of the blast," she added, sadly.

Rossi took the picture from her to get a better look as Grace rubbed a hand over her face. Fire seemed to be haunting them these days, as if it had suddenly become the accessory of choice for every case.

"Clearly they used the bombing to set the officers up for an ambush," Prentiss surmised.

"It's a well-established terrorist tactic," Spencer observed. "Uh, first wave takes out civilians, the second wave takes out first responders."

"The locals are thinking terrorism?" Morgan asked. "In West Bune, Texas?"

Looking at the map, Spencer could see his point. West Bune was probably the least likely place to find terrorism, anywhere. He looked up to find Grace peering over his arm.

"Where the hell is the rest of it?" she muttered.

JJ nodded.

"Not exactly a tier-one target," she admitted. "But DHS did issue a terror alert for the border states yesterday. Just due to the timing and nature of the attack –"

"I'm – I've never heard of this place," Morgan argued. "I mean the militia, okay, that I could see."

"Yeah, well, it is close to the border," Prentiss pointed out. "It could be traffickers, sending a message."

"Stranger things have happened," said Grace. "Could be a nutter with an agenda who thinks they're fighting for a greater cause."

"You're so specific with your profilin'," Morgan teased.

Grace gave him a withering look.

"Whoever it is, they gunned down two cops and blew up a teenage girl," said Rossi. "Until they're stopped, no one in that town is safe."

The team nodded, more sober now.

"We need to be cautious with the locals," Hotch told them. "They've lost two of their own, they're anxious, they're sacred – and they're going to want revenge."

"Can you blame 'em?" Rossi asked.

They paused, each remembering the last time it had been one of their own, and how far they had been prepared to go to take the bastard that had hurt their unofficial family down.

"True, but we don't want this to get out of hand," Hotch reasoned.

Grace nodded, pursing her lips.

"It's bad enough when something like this happens in London," she reflected, darkly. "But in a tight-knit community, where everyone has a gun?"

"I want to make sure we're up to speed with this," said Hotch, sternly following the direction of her thoughts. "We fly out tonight and get on the ground, on the scene at first light. Sorry guys. Wheels up in thirty."

He stalked out, leaving a room full of worried and irritable agents behind him. They began to file out, grabbing their go-bags and picking up any paperwork they thought was going to be useful on the way out, or reports that could be finished on the way back in. JJ and Emily immediately vanished in the direction of the nearest coffee shop, taking orders for the next morning's breakfast, which would have to be on the hop.

The prospect of sleeping on the jet after a full day of work wasn't making any of them particularly cheerful.

Spencer trailed after them. He was calmer now, more focussed. Calm enough to assess his team mates, too. It was a late one, so they'd all been dispersed across the city, indulging in whatever they did when they didn't see one another. Rossi, Prentiss and JJ all looked like they'd been relaxing at home, and didn't seem overly happy about being back at work so late. Hotch was wearing the suit he'd had on earlier and Spencer was willing to bet he hadn't been home at all.

Morgan looked like he'd been at a bar somewhere, radiating an effortless cool that he couldn't help but envy; he had an arm around Grace's shoulder, commiserating about whatever they had been doing that had been cut short.

Whatever he'd said had made her laugh; she tipped back her head and gave the other agent a friendly push. Spencer smiled. Morgan had a way of cheering people up. It was one of the reasons he didn't mind his occasional ribbing. He always seemed to know when someone needed that little push back to their centre.

He watched his friends winding one another up, feeling a little out of place and – something else. Something he didn't feel like thinking too much about right now.

He caught up with them at the elevator, where Morgan asked again about the 'hot date' he'd obviously been on. Under his stuttered denials, he saw Grace lift her eyes to his face with the slightest of smirks. She had him rumbled alright.

Was he always this easy to read, he wondered, or was it something you had to expect, being part of such a close-knit team?

Grace steered the conversation away, gently, and 'carelessly' dropped a hint about her own activities (a lecture at the Folger Shakespeare Library) that immediately had Morgan on the scent. He immediately rounded on her and demanded to know every detail about _her_ love life instead.

Spencer gave her a grateful smile when he wasn't looking.

"You owe me," she mouthed, and stepped out of the elevator.

0o0

 _A sad soul can kill you quicker, far quicker, than a germ._

 _John Steinbeck_

0o0

The SUVs pulled up a little way away from the crime scene, which was still smoking.

They prowled over the crime scene, carefully picking their way around the wreckage of the trailer, glad that forensics was done with it for now, and that the human remains had been taken away. It was hard to reconcile this tumultuous end with an ordinary life, but that was the picture the file had painted.

A hard man to like, but an ordinary man. They were still trying to ID the daughter, but if she had been in that mess there was no way she would have survived.

Derek glanced at Pearce, who was walking stoically beside Prentiss. She had a hard time with fire scenes, having witnessed first-hand the carnage they could wreak on a human. There were no outward signs of distress this time – he had had half an eye on her since they saw the footage at the briefing the night before, but she seemed okay.

She was a tough cookie, like the others, but Derek knew that didn't mean someone was always fine with something. They all had cases that got to them, he was no different, and Grace had a tendency to close up around fires. He knew if she caught him looking, she'd probably punch him, but he couldn't help it. Knowing one of his team-mates – his friends – was struggling brought out the big brother in him.

And he wasn't the only one keeping a careful eye on her: Reid, as usual, had been her shadow on the jet. Those two were close – though he wouldn't care to speculate how their relationship actually functioned (as far as he knew they were just friends, like he and Garcia were) he was pretty sure she would have told the kid about her dad.

JJ and Emily, too, were a little over-friendly with her at breakfast, and Hotch had a weather eye on her. Rossi too, though how in hell he knew anything about it, Derek would never know. Sometimes he just knew stuff, like he'd read their minds.

The only thing, really, the man had in common with Gideon.

Grace, who was, after all, also a profiler, was ignoring all of this unwanted if well-meaning attention, with a tolerance bordering on the saintly. Derek smiled, wondering how long he could wind her up before she snapped. He hadn't found her limit yet – not that he'd been trying overly hard – but there were moments when her temper got the better of her. Her grumpiness on the previous case had been instructive.

Everybody had a bad day, but even her worst days seemed to be kept close to her chest.

Not for the first time, he wondered whether the calm, considered front she generally presented to the world was an act – like the parts of her she'd kept hidden for months after she'd first arrived: her bizarre, silly sense of humour, or her ability to vanish unexpectedly in the middle of a conversation and turn up someplace else, or the odd angle she took at things sometimes.

It had caused them to clash once or twice, but only a little. They had a healthy respect for each other's skills, which prevented it from ever getting out of hand. Both of them had been cops before graduating to detective and agent; a lot of the time she understood where he was coming from – sometimes more than the others did. She seemed to know when she ought to back off to cool a situation down; that made him wonder, too: had she always known that, or was it something she'd had to learn?

She was a good profiler, and the way she'd responded when Penelope had been hurt had shown him just how hard she was willing to fight for the team, but, for the moment, his friend was on shakier ground – and that meant he was going to stick to her like glue until that ground solidified.

Pearce stepped surefooted around a steaming tangle of metal and paused, looking up at the tree where Rod Norris's corpse had been found.

Sighing, she waited for him to join her, a tacit acknowledgment that he was on her tail.

"Nothing like the smell of cordite in the morning," she remarked, running an eye over the wider area.

"Or burnt plastic," he added. "Burn pattern's pretty wide."

"That's the plastic," she said, pointing at a nearby clump of metal framework, all twisted and blackened like the legs of a dying spider. "The explosion carried the fire into the undergrowth. The initial ignition area must have been pretty contained."

"Around the front door." He prodded a lump of congealed plastic with his foot. "So why somebody's trailer? Why not target somethin' like a post office or the sheriff's office – somethin' that would get people's attention?"

Grace nodded.

"You're right, it doesn't feel like a terror attack – at least, not on a large scale."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if I was a resident of West Bune, I'd be feeling pretty terrorised right now."

Up ahead, JJ was greeting a severely pissed off Sheriff. They moved to join the others.

"Sheriff Hallam?"

"Ma'am."

"Jennifer Jareau."

She shook his hand.

"Mmhmm."

"This is the team," she said, introducing them in turn. "Agents Hotchner, Rossi, Doctor Reid, Prentiss, Morgan and Pearce."

She paused as everybody shook hands or waved.

"We're really sorry for your loss."

The pain of it was scrawled across his face for a moment, but he kept it well in check – you had to, on a case like this. They had lost two friends here, and Derek knew how that felt. The only way to get through it was to get the job done – then and only then could you begin to grieve.

"Thank you. Where do we start?"

He wasn't brusque exactly, just matter of fact, eager to get going; these were his people and his case, but he wasn't immediately shutting them out or running them off. Sometimes any help was good help, even if it came from an unexpected source

"The first victim, Rod Norris?" Hotch enquired.

"Manager of the chemical plant over at Iblas," Sheriff Hallam told them. "No arrests in ten years, since his wife left him."

 _But plenty before that,_ Derek thought.

It was amazing what people managed to say without opening their mouths.

"I can't blame her for leavin' him," the Sheriff continued. "But it's a shame she left Jordan behind."

"What can you tell us about Jordan?" Rossi asked.

"Sweet girl," said the Sheriff. "Bit slow."

West Bune, Texas, didn't appear to be the most politically correct town in America, but the Sheriff was trying, and he really seemed genuinely broken up about Jordan.

"Slow?" Emily queried. "She was mentally challenged?"

"Not quite," Sheriff Hallam shrugged. "Special ed' and all that stuff. Take some talkin' to, to notice it. I think her mother leavin' took its toll."

People were always more honest about a person after they died, Derek reflected. If they'd asked these questions a week ago, chances were the Sheriff would have got as far as 'sweet girl' and clammed up.

"She have any enemies you know of?" Pearce asked.

"No." Sheriff Hallam glanced at the house. "Only her father."

Derek saw Hotch send JJ a glance.

"Sheriff, I'd – I'd like to gather your people back at the office, so I can brief them all together," said JJ.

"Sure," the sheriff agreed. "But I'm stayin' here."

"Of course," JJ nodded. "Thank you."

She made her way back to the SUVs to start working out the details; Pearce sheared off to help her collect personnel. Everybody else fanned out across the trailer bed, keenly aware that the roof might cave in.

Derek wandered around back to check the perimeter. You never knew what people might miss when they were focussed on a friend's death.

0o0

Emily peered gingerly into the living room of the trailer. It had been largely untouched by the fire and the subsequent efforts to contain it, and had the clean-but-worn look of a house whose occupants tried to spend as little time in one another's company as possible. Around the doorframe were tell-tale scraps of plastic and tape.

"The blast was localised here," said Reid, pointing at where the front door had been.

"The room's been sealed," Emily remarked. "There's plastic, duct tape on the door sills. Windows, too."

"Cordite – gunpowder," said Rossi, sniffing at a paint can full of the stuff.

"Yeah, they found a dozen canisters, it says," Reid said, checking the file.

"Well, the concentration of damage puts those canisters right here by the door," she nodded at the scorching on the floor.

"He seals the kitchen, blows out the pilot light, trapping the gas in here, near the primary charge," said Rossi, talking it through. "If she was here, between the charge and the window…"

"Boom," Emily finished. "Rod Norris ends up in tree, Jordan ends up in the field."

Reid shook his head, frowning.

"He didn't care about the rest of the house, though – the whole thing is designed to focus the blast on whoever came through that door."

He was right. The scene felt off, inconsistent. Emily had a root around on the countertop; this had not been the tidiest of kitchens, even before it got ripped apart.

"Yeah, but what was the trigger?" Rossi asked.

"Rod Norris," Emily told him, holding up a hundred pack of Marlboros. "He was a smoker."

"And they knew he would be coming through this door," Rossi observed, thoughtfully.

Reid frowned up at the space where the doorframe had recently been attached.

"They knew he'd be smoking when he did it."

0o0

Aaron, Morgan and the Sheriff had drifted towards where the first responders had been gunned down. It was exactly where the Sheriff wanted to be, and there was no point trying to keep him away. They needed his local knowledge here – and he needed their lack of bias.

"Hit pattern says they were fired on full auto," said Morgan, scanning the bullets on the ground. "Tight grouping for it. Single burst put 'em both down. That takes skill – and some serious training."

"Letts lands here, still alive, Savage falls there, dead," Aaron extrapolated from the file, as the three men peered down at the bloodstained earth.

"But I walk past Letts," Morgan considered, pacing it out. "And I shoot Lou Savage in the face when I know he's already dead."

He looked up at his boss.

"This was personal," Aaron agreed.

"They knew each other?" Sheriff Hallam asked.

"Enough to know Rod Norris would enter through the back door while smoking," said Reid, coming out of what had been a house to join them.

"And to know that Lou Savage was on duty and would respond," Morgan added.

"So, what're we talkin' about here?" Sheriff Hallam asked, more baffled than ever.

Aaron didn't blame him. He'd gone from the murder of two of his men to a possible terror attack and back to a really convoluted murder again in less than a day.

"This wasn't terrorism, domestic or otherwise," he told him. "Terrorists rarely know their victims – at least not personally."

"Because they knew Rod Norris was a smoker who used his back door?" the sheriff asked.

"And shot Deputy Savage in the face at point blank range," Morgan reminded him.

Sheriff Hallam looked around, trying to read their faces.

"They weren't bein' thorough?" he asked.

"No," Morgan explained. "He walked past Letts, who was alive, shoots Savage in the face when he knows he's already dead. Responders were coming, that last shot was risky overkill."

"Overkill means rage, rage means a close personal relationship," Reid told the Sheriff.

"Rod Norris and Lou Savage were the specific targets of this attack," Aaron concluded.

"Sheriff, can you think of anyone with a close personal connection to Rod Norris and Lou Savage?" Morgan asked.

The answer crossed the other man's face before he even opened his mouth.

"I didn't think about it, because of the terror alert," he said.

"Think about what?" Aaron asked.

It was so easy to become side-tracked in a case, particularly when every other news story was a terror attack and the DHS put out alerts every few weeks. Besides, no one wanted to think that there were murderers in their own town – better if it was someone from outside. Easier to face.

Usually incorrect

"Owen. Owen Savage," said the sheriff. "Lou's son was dating Jordan Norris."


	6. Savage Einstein

**Essential listening: Nowhere Kids, by Shinedown**

 **0o0**

It took less than a minute for the three agents to take stock of the Savage residence. Not that they could say it out loud with the Sheriff, one of Savage's friends, there. It was neat, tidy and a little too Spartan for two men living in close quarters. It could have been straight out of a textbook: domineering father, disappearing son. Not submissive though. Not that.

They must have clashed every damn day.

"How long did you know Lou Savage?" Hotch asked, grimly.

"My whole life," said Sheriff Hallam.

"And Deputy Savage's wife?"

"Hope?"

"How did she die?" Hotch queried.

"Drunk driver in '02. Lou was in Afghanistan," said the Sheriff. "Owen lived with us until he got back."

Derek watched Reid run a long finger over the top of Lou Savage's dress uniform photo. Not a speck of dust there, hanging in pride of place.

"Semper fi," the young agent murmured, ducking into the next room – the kitchen.

"How long was Lou Savage in the marines?" Derek asked, changing tack.

"Twelve years. He was discharged so he could raise Owen."

"Is that why he resented them?" Reid asked, pulling the Sheriff and his two colleagues up short.

"Pardon me?" the Sheriff asked, a dangerous note in his voice.

"Uh, did Lou blame his wife and son for ending his career in the marines?" Reid asked, sounding irritated that he should have to spell it out for the guy.

Derek stared at him. That was blunt, even for Reid.

"Lou was a good man," the sheriff told him, getting defensive now.

"A good man who doesn't have a single photo of his dead wife or only son anywhere in his entire house?" Reid scoffed.

Hotch, sending a wary glance in Reid's direction, addressed the Sheriff, trying to diffuse the tension a little.

"I know this is hard, and if we had more time we would be more sensitive," Hotch said, carefully. "But we don't."

The sheriff sighed; nodded. Derek took it as a good sign – acceptance that certain things had to be done to end this whole sorry situation.

"Hope was the drunk driver," he said, heavily. "I didn't write it up that way, but – didn't matter. Her drinkin' was no secret in town."

"Where's Owen's room?" Reid asked, with a frown.

"Right over there," said the sheriff, indicating a door near the front of the house.

Derek watched Reid stalk over to it, something making his movements edgy, more deliberate than usual.

And he had thought Pearce would be the one feeling embattled on this case.

He shared a look with Hotch, an unspoken request to keep an eye on the kid, and went to have a poke around in Lou Savage's bedroom. This room, too, was Spartan – everything kept 'just so', the way a marine commander would. His dress blues were laid out in plastic on the bed, wrapped in plastic. It looked like that was how he started and finished each day, looking at his marine uniform.

Derek carried them through to the main room, where Hotch and Sheriff Hallam were trying to crack the combination on the gun safe.

"Hotch. Dress blues in plastic, no pics of wife and son." He shrugged - it was suggestive.

"No luck," said Sheriff Hallam, who had been trying Hope and Owen's birthdays.

"Try 11.10.75," Hotch suggested.

"November tenth 1975, what's that?" Derek asked.

"1775 – Marine Corps birthday," Hotch explained.

There was a click as the gun cabinet lock opened.

"You mighta just sold me on that profiling of yours," the Sheriff remarked. He sighed as the door swung back to reveal an extremely empty locker. "That's bad."

"How bad?" Hotch asked.

"Lou is our tactical trainer," the other man explained, grimly. "He had a whole collection of automatic weapons and handguns."

"Which he taught Owen to shoot…" Hotch guessed.

Derek shook his head. That had bad news written all over it. He joined Reid in Owen's room, which had at one point been red, but someone had inexpertly painted over all of it in black. The red showed through in a lot of places. Otherwise it was a troubled teenager's room: posters and memorabilia all over it.

"Gun safe is empty," he said.

"That's a surprise," Reid remarked, sarcastically.

He stopped by a poster of a car wreck that had been taped to the wall, another indicator.

"That's James Dean's Porsche," Derek remarked, looking over his shoulder. "No pics of James Dean, though – that's a bad sign."

"'Specially when your mother died in a car accident," Reid reflected. "Still haven't found the 'Father of the Year' award."

Derek frowned. Reid was never like this. He'd seen the kid furious with suspects, or with himself, but never with a witness – and never with someone who had just lost two friends. Lou Savage wasn't even six hours dead and he'd already taken against him in an unusually vocal fashion (though Derek couldn't say the man didn't deserve it). He'd thought Reid could keep his emotions better in check.

"You already check his computer?" Derek asked, giving the kid a little more leeway.

"It's password encrypted," Reid told him, almost lazily.

Derek nodded.

"Smart move if your dad's a cop," he observed.

"Yeah, assuming he cares enough to snoop," he sneered.

Derek frowned. Enough was enough

"Hey, Reid – check yourself," he suggested. Reid looked around as though he didn't know what Derek was talking about, but it didn't fool him for a moment. "That sheriff wanted to take your head off – I think Hotch mighta let him."

The careless shrug he threw him reminded Morgan strongly of those awful months after his abduction. The whole team had seen the pain he was in, watching as every part of his life began to slip and fall apart. He had been angry and taciturn, snapping at all of them. The worst part had been the helplessness, bearing witness to his friend's inevitable collapse and being powerless to stop it.

And then, one day, it all seemed to have ended. Somehow, he'd found a way to fight again, and Morgan had never been happier about being bored to tears about some facet of _Star Wars_ he'd never previously spared a thought for. He had a shrewd suspicion that Pearce had had something to do with it, but he knew from years of experience that Reid wouldn't have got any better unless he'd decided to.

Now, though, he was acting out, and Derek didn't like that one bit.

It scared him.

He turned back to the task at hand, aware that while his friend might be in trouble, right now the whole of West Bune was probably a target, and they needed to focus on that.

"All his clothes are black," he observed, pulling a bundle of them out of the chest of drawers.

"Same here," said Reid, from the closet.

"Just like his friend, Johnny Cash," Derek added, looking up at a poster which held pride of place above the desk. "So Owen identifies with bein' a misunderstood loner. You know, I wish all our unsubs would just tack their profiles on their walls like this for us."

"That doesn't mean anything," Reid objected. "What, you grew up in Chicago, a high school jock, and you had pictures of –" he paused, thinking. Sports people weren't his forte. "– Scottie Pippen and Michael Jordan all over your walls? Trophies everywhere?"

"Yeah, but you forgot Walter Payton," Derek told him. "Not to mention the sexy ladies of the sports illustrated swimsuit issue."

He caressed the curves of an imaginary woman with his hands while Reid rolled his eyes.

"Smart money says you didn't paint your mirrors black," Reid observed, scratching his thumbnail along the paint-obscured glass.

"I guess Owen didn't like what he saw," said Derek, sadly.

0o0

In the time it had taken for Grace, Reid and Hotch to get to the school, the Sheriff's Department had IDed the latest victim: Kyle Borden, attendant at the seven eleven Owen had apparently bought supplies at immediately after blowing Rod Norris's house up and gunning down his father and Byron Letts.

Kyle had been a couple of years older than Owen, but where he could have fallen foul of the boy's wounded sense of justice it was hard to tell. The attitude of everyone else they'd met so far had been that Owen was a fuck up and deserved anything coming to him.

Grace wondered whether that general attitude hadn't been a contributing factor in his decision to murder his obviously overbearing father. There was only so much you could do to prove a whole town wrong; sometimes it was just easier to prove them right – be the 'twisted bastard' everyone expected you to be.

"That was Emily," she said, hanging up. "They reckon he's holed up somewhere in town and – get this: Jordan Norris _isn't_ dead."

"Who did they find in that field?" Reid asked, surprised.

"Ham, mostly," she told them. "And steak, wrapped up in Jordan's clothes."

"She's a hostage?" Hotch wondered.

"Or she went willingly," Grace guessed.

"After he killed her father?"

"Well, she may not know."

"Are you the FBI guys?"

They turned to find a middle aged man staring at them across the reception desk. He looked pale and very, very worried.

Apparently, news travelled pretty fast in a small town like West Bune. The School Counsellor, inappropriately named Danny Panzer (anyone less like a tank was difficult to imagine), led them through the busy school and to the collection of rooms that made up the counselling suite.

"As Owen's counsellor, what can you tell us about Jordan and Owen?" Hotch asked, as they strode along the corridors.

"Not much," said Panzer. "They started datin' last year when Owen moved to special ed'."

"Junior year – is he not a bit late?" Hotch enquired, surprised.

"Yes – if he'd been put there for academic reasons," Panzer told them, while Reid assimilated the contents of Owen's student transcripts at his own, peculiar speed.

"What was the problem?" Hotch asked.

"Bad attitude, lack of effort," the counsellor told them. "Owen applied himself in some classes, did very well. But – it didn't last."

Grace narrowed her eyes. Her unfamiliarity with the American school system had kept her quiet to this point (what, when you came right down to it, was a 'counsellor' supposed to do about the whole teenage thing, anyway?), but that didn't sound right to her. Her own experience (love school, hate the other kids) prompted her to ask:

"He's done okay up to now, but his commitment slipped? I'm guessing that had nothing to do with his academic abilities."

Panzer nodded, a little sadly. She guessed he'd kind of liked Owen, in an exasperated sort of way. There was no room for liking now, not after what he had already done.

"The problem wasn't lack of effort or bad attitude," Reid told him brusquely, his nose buried in the file. "The 'A's in math and science tell us he's a gifted student. The 'D's in English and history that tells us he had difficulty reading, and the – the 'F' in geometry? That – that indicates a severe problem with spatial relations, as further confirmed by his atrocious illegible handwriting."

He waved a hand at the page. Grace frowned; Spencer's tone was unfamiliar, angry. He handed the file to Hotch, who perused it with somewhat less speed. Panzer looked affronted, as anyone would who had just been told they'd missed a gifted student and put him in special education.

"All consistent with a brilliant, but severely learning disabled student," Hotch reflected.

"Yeah, but his standardised tests didn't support that kind of intelligence," Panzer said, dismissively.

"Same thing happened to Einstein," Grace reflected. "His teachers told him he'd never amount to anything – turned out he had dyslexia, and one of the finest minds of the last century."

"A spatial relations handicap affects your hand eye coordination," Reid retorted, the pace of his speech picking up as he got more pissed off. "He couldn't fill in an answer bubble any easier than he could –" he floundered for a moment – "hit a baseball!"

"Which is why he stayed away from sports," Hotch surmised, looking at the transcript.

Grace didn't blame him. No use sucking at that too, and having the whole town laugh at you all over again. She shook her head. This case had 'school shooter' written all over it. But why hadn't he gone after the kids at school?

"Sports were a sore spot with his father," said Panzer, still trying to be as helpful as possible. "I mean, he joined the wrestling team his freshman year just to appease his old man, but – uh…" He winced. "Well, it didn't work out."

The phone rang, calling Panzer away.

"Excuse me."

"The worst part of this is that it could probably have been prevented," Grace remarked, when the man was out of earshot. "The kid tried everything he could to fix things with his dad, but nothing was ever good enough."

"Nothing was ever going to _be_ good enough," Hotch pointed out. "Not after he was forced out of the marines to care for Owen."

"Tch-yeah," Reid snorted, a sour look on his face. "And I bet he thought that was beneath him." He shook his head. "Owen was probably the smartest kid in class – he just couldn't prove it," he complained. "Being the smartest kid in class is like being the only kid in class," he told them, lowering his voice. "He missed all of it."

 _Like you_ , Grace thought, suddenly, understanding.

"But schools like this can't be expected to meet the specialised needs of every student," Hotch remarked, a little exasperated.

"He gives it everything he's got, over and over and over again, and continues to fail!" Reid told him, angrily. "The whole time – the whole time they tell him it's his fault."

"Reid," said Grace, warningly.

"I mean, it makes sense!"

"No it doesn't," Hotch argued. "An undiagnosed learning disability does not add up to this level of violence. Not without severe emotional abuse, you know that."

The look Spencer gave Hotch as he turned away to take a call could have curdled paint.

He moved to say something else, but Grace slapped a hand on his midriff as hard as she dared, pushing him back off the balls of his feet.

"So, find the severe emotional abuse," she hissed.

For a moment he looked at her as though she was something that had crawled off the underside of his shoe.

"In a high school? Oh, really Grace, where would you look for emotional abuse in a school?"

"Wow, we're all just performing chimps to you, aren't we?" she asked, and put up a hand, not waiting for his response. "He's the smartest kid in his class, we both know that he's being bullied – probably worse than most people can imagine. It's awful, but now he's killing people."

"He's killing people _because –_ "

" _I know!_ " she retorted, louder than she'd intended. Gods, but he knew how to piss a person off if he wanted to. She lowered her voice, aware that both Hotch and Panzer had glanced in their direction. "I know. But we have a job to do here, and that's finding Owen and stopping him hurting anyone else. With what he's already done, you know as well as I do that he's not going to stop until we catch him."

Spencer bit back what was probably going to be an acid retort and stamped a few feet away. Knowing someone was right and actually acting like they were, were two different things. They hadn't argued – not properly – since her first morning with the team, and that altercation had had more to do with substance abuse and a god-awful plane journey than anything else. Grace had forgotten how unpleasant he could be, if he wanted to. It made her uneasy, fighting with him.

It hadn't occurred to her before now how much his friendship meant to her – and how unhappy she would be without it. It galled her a little that she'd come to think of him as a sort of constant.

That would have to stop.

With a quick glance at Hotch to make sure he and Panzer were still occupied, she crossed the room and touched that part of his back he always seemed to aim for when he knew she was upset. Spencer jumped slightly and turned, still very cross.

"Look, I'm sorry," she said, in a low voice. "I figure you know exactly what this kid's been going through."

His angry silence wasn't difficult to read, though he did seem to subside a little at her apology.

"Don't worry, I won't ask," Grace told him, softly. "But use it, don't let it take you over."

"It's not fair," he said, and she was reminded of a recent conversation they'd had on the jet, on the way back from another excursion into hell.

Grace nodded, sadly, and patted his hand; for a moment he gripped her fingers – as close to an acknowledgement that he had listened as he was prepared to give for now – before letting her hand fall.

0o0

"Jordan is the gentlest girl in the world, she could never hurt anybody."

Eileen, picked out by the school counsellor as Jordan's closest friend, was an earnest, usually bubbly girl. One good kid out of a million others. She seemed scared – more about what might happen to her friend than anything else – and absolutely certain about Jordan's character.

"Eileen, can you tell us about Jordan's father?" Emily asked.

"He thought she was dumb," Eileen told them, honestly. "And she wasn't – she'd get the answer if you gave her time, but… he never did."

"Did he ever hit her?" JJ asked.

Eileen nodded unhappily while JJ despaired of a world where kids had to face so much darkness without ever being able to do anything about it.

"She thought she deserved it," said Eileen. "At least, 'til Owen came along."

Emily gave her a searching look.

"Are they in love?"

The change that came over Eileen's face was instant: suddenly her vibrant, happy personality shone through, delighted for her friend.

"Oh, yes ma'am! I thought she was gonna die when her dad took her phone away. She didn't have a computer, so Owen bought her a PDA for email. He paid the bill and everthin', and set it up so that it wouldn't ring unless it was Owen or me."

"Owen took care of her," Emily surmised.

"He tried," Eileen confirmed. Some of the darkness of the situation had come back to her now, filling her features with fear and uncertainty. "Whenever anyone said anything bad about her he'd stick up for her. Always."

Now there was a story that wasn't being told, JJ thought

"What would people say about her?"

Eileen sighed again. Jordan's life up to now really hadn't been much of a picnic.

"Um… when Jordan was a freshman, there was a senior that took advantage of her," she told them, sadly. "He told everyone about it. That's how she and I became friends – I – I thought she needed someone to look out for her." She frowned, fighting back tears. "I guess I didn't do a very good job."

"You're wrong," Emily assured her. "She's lucky to have you as a friend, Eileen."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She nodded, though JJ wasn't entirely sure she believed them.

"We're done for now," Emily told her, and the girl went to leave as quickly as she could, eager to get away from unwanted scrutiny to nurse her fear for her friend in peace. Emily stopped her. "Oh, before you go – what can you tell us about a Kyle Borden?"

"Uh…" Eileen bit her lip, obviously uncomfortable sharing all this with authoritative strangers. "Kyle was the senior who took advantage of Jordan when she was a freshman."

"Thank you."

"Well," JJ remarked, when she had gone. "That explains why Owen shot him in the face."

0o0

The file Derek had found turned out to be one of the worst examples of teenage psychological torture Grace had ever seen. When Owen had joined the wrestling team, they had hazed him expertly, gauging with exquisite precision how best to humiliate an already struggling boy.

It was clear from the video that he meant nothing to them. Getting him to touch himself in front of them in the showers was one thing, but filming it and then putting it on the internet?

Grace turned her face away, gritting her teeth. How anyone could do something like that and get away with it – it beggared belief. She could feel the agent on either side of her bristling with fury. Hotch's anger was cold, professional; Spencer, on the other hand…

"He didn't know he was being filmed," he observed, a deep frown on his face.

" _You wanna be on the team, you gotta do it!"_

" _We all did it."_

" _Yeah – I'll try – I'll try…"_

"Did Owen tell you about this?" Reid asked.

"He didn't have to," said Panzer, heavily, as Hotch turned the video off in disgust. "It was posted to the school's social networking site. We pulled it down immediately."

"Once it's on the internet it's out there forever, Owen knew that," Spencer remarked.

"Did Owen ever tell his father about it?" Hotch asked.

"Well, not at first – but when Owen quit the wrestling team, his father confronted him," Panzer explained. "He blamed Owen for the whole thing."

"He only joined the team to get his father's approval," Reid despaired.

 _And look what that got him,_ Grace thought.

"How were these boys punished?" Hotch queried.

Panzer hesitated.

"Owen identified them," he said. "But all we had was their voices. I mean, even if they admitted involvement, all they'd say is that Owen didn't have to do it."

Hotch turned away, revolted at the realisation that the school had just hung Owen out to dry.

"He didn't know he was being filmed!" Reid protested.

"Look, it's his word against theirs," Panzer retorted. He got up from his seat, agitated.

 _They knew about this and they didn't do a fucking thing about it._

Appalled, Grace gaped at him.

"So you did _nothing_?" she gasped.

"The parents woulda got involved, the school board, lawyers – I mean, cyber bullying is a hot issue right now."

"Which is why you do something about it!" Grace snapped.

She caught Hotch's look of warning (and the disgust on his face) and tutted. Of course they shouldn't say this kind of thing when they needed someone's co-operation – and they weren't here to cast blame – but it was bloody hard not to when something as reprehensible at this had just been brushed under the carpet.

No wonder the poor kid was shooting people. It was a wonder he hadn't killed himself.

Perhaps he still would.

"The whole thing woulda ended up on _Sixty Minutes_ , how's that gonna help Owen?" Panzer asked, rhetorically.

 _It might have told him someone gave a damn about his welfare,_ Grace griped, internalising her anger for the sake of the investigation.

"What did you tell him?" Hotch asked, moderating his tone so as not to sound accusatory.

"I told him that dealin' with bullies is part of growin' up."

Impatience getting the better of her, Grace turned and walked a few feet away, where she would be less tempted to hit the man. Panzer's incompetence in the face of mental torture was staggering. If it had been a girl being filmed, these kids would have been expelled – unless she was from an underprivileged background and couldn't fight back. Glaring at the flag by the door (another alien part of American schools) she missed the change in Spencer's expression, but she heard the dangerous smile in his voice.

At some point in the last few moments he had gone through fury and come out the other side. There was a dark kind of laughter in his voice as he chuckled:

"Sounds familiar."

"Boys have a way of sortin' these things out for themselves," Panzer remarked, dismissively.

"Yeah, they sure do," Spencer laughed. "Right now, Owen's sorting it out with an assault rifle."

"Reid," said Hotch, warningly.

Spencer snorted, clearly livid, and took the hint; he stormed out of the room, peevishly knocking a bunch of files to the ground as he went. Grace was almost surprised he hadn't slammed the door.

She shared a glance with Hotch, who looked just about as shocked as she felt. With the exception of the first morning she'd been with the team, she had never seen Spencer angry. Professionally frustrated, deeply unhappy, anxious, irritable – but not angry.

Not that she could blame him, after what Panzer had just admitted.

Grace hurried after him as Hotch made his apologies.

He was already halfway down the next hall, moving at some speed. Cursing his ridiculously long legs, she ran gracelessly after him, trying to make as little sound as possible.

"Reid!" she hissed, not wanting to disturb any of the classes along the corridor. "Hey – slow down!"

She caught up with him and swung him into an empty classroom, away from prying ears.

"Get off me," he snapped, pulling his arm out of hers.

"Calm down," she retorted, surprised at the rage she saw in his face.

He was more like a petulant child now than a seasoned agent.

"You are just spoiling for a fight today, Spencer – cool it."

"Cool it? Those kids destroyed Owen and nobody did a damn thing about it," he spat, waving an arm at the door. "And you want me to calm down? I can't believe you're taking the counsellor's side!"

He wasn't shouting so much as venomously whispering, his voice shaking with genuine anger. It was deeply unsettling.

"I'm not taking anyone's side!" she replied, and he threw his head to one side, too caught up in his anger to want to hear her. "Hey – no, you listen to me. What they did was unacceptable, and the principal should have suspended them at the very least – you, me, Hotch, we all know that."

His voice had taken on that quiet, intense tone of the dangerously furious.

"You both kept pretty quiet –"

"Because we need his co-operation," she interrupted. "He's scared silly as it is, we don't need to make it worse right now."

"He needs to understand what he's done!" Spencer argued, flinging an arm in the direction of the office.

"And he will – _after_ we've brought Owen in."

He glowered at her, fuming, before subsiding.

"I just – I know how that feels, you know?"

"I know," she said. "And I can't help feeling Owen's kind of in the right here – his dad, Norris, they deserved –" She stopped, shook her head. "Something. Not death, but _something_."

Spencer heaved a bitter sigh.

"They turned him into this. He didn't stand a chance."

Grace nodded, sadly.

"There are other ways to get revenge that don't involve machine guns, or high explosives."

He looked like he was about to speak, but the door opened, curtailing their conversation. Hotch leaned into the room, looking extremely grim.

"The kids that made that video," he said, making Grace's stomach clench. "They didn't show up at school today."


	7. Not Our Finest Hour

**Essential listening: Fever Dreams, by Dashboard Confessional**

0o0

" _He deleted everything but the one MPEG," said Garcia. "I'm walking Morgan through retrieving what he put in the trash, but –"_

Hotch cut her off.

"We've got three missing kids Garcia, we need access to Owen's email."

They were gathered around a computer in the Sheriff's Department, watching an extremely chirpy Penelope Garcia sipping from her giant yellow mug. It was a mark of how badly they needed a break that even Grace and Emily were feeling a little impatient with their friend's usually charming banter.

" _The kid is tech savvy sir, but fret not – I am tech savvier. Is that a word? It sounds like a word. If it is, I am it!" she declared, speaking very quickly._

"DC time, Garcia," Prentiss told her, tolerantly.

Garcia glanced up at the clock on the wall, out of sight of the webcam.

" _11.17 a.m." she told them, promptly._

"DC – decaf."

" _Oh, right…"_

She vanished and the team (minus Morgan, who was still busy working on Owen's computer at the Savage house, and JJ, who was charming the good people of West Bune into submission) took stock.

"Two alienated kids, no maternal presence, dysfunctional relationships with dominating fathers who withheld love," Rossi reckoned. "They were made for each other."

"As lovers, yes," Emily admitted. "But partners in crime, no. There's nothing in Jordan's profile that indicates she's capable of violence – and certainly not murder."

"Either way, she's along for the ride now," Grace reflected.

The computer gave out an electronic chirp and Garcia reappeared, her earlier cheer replaced by caffeine-fuelled disgust.

" _A new MPEG was just posted to the school's networking site,"_ she told them, looking grief-stricken. " _He – he…"_ She paused, gathered herself. " _You need to see this."_

The screen changed, through some action of Garcia's, to a window containing the media file. It was another video, this time shot outside, but with the same main players as the last. Three boys – the three boys who had forced Owen to take part in the first clip, Grace guessed – were half naked and on their knees, their clothes strewn around them on the rocky ground. All three of them had their hands on their heads and were plainly terrified.

"Oh God…" Grace murmured, realising – along with the rest of the team – what was about to happen.

Powerless to prevent it, they watched as the three boys begged for their lives, the strains of a Johnny Cash song obscuring none of their desperate pleas.

" _Come on man!"_

" _We didn't mean anything by it!"_

" _It was three years ago – no one even remembers it!"_

Owen's voice, in contrast, was calm and collected.

" _I do_."

Grace closed her eyes as he emptied the clip into them, just out of shot – the way they had been. She pinched the bridge of her nose. This had gone too far. Owen was way beyond saving now.

"Garcia, is there any way to trace the MPEG to the computer that sent it?" Hotch asked her.

" _It was sent from Jordan's PDA, but Owen's hacked the sim card,"_ she told them. " _He's anonymised it – that stops the phone from transmitting its current position. Hackers do it to stop roaming charges. It's good for one call, and then the carrier turns the service off."_

"So even if it's turned on and he's using it, we can't track it?" Rossi confirmed.

" _Bingo."_

"Have the cell company leave the service on in case he sends anything else," Hotch instructed her.

" _Yes, sir."_

"Let's bring in Sheriff Hallam and see if he recognises the background."

0o0

The crime scene was a little patch of scrubby riverbank under the railroad – the kind of place a modern photographer would immortalise in black and white. There had been another kind of shooting here today, and far less picturesque.

Dave followed Rossi and Hotch down the steep embankment to the bodies still being processed by the coroner and the local forensics unit.

"There's a man going round taking names," Reid quoted, as they approached the sad fruits of another man's anger. "And he decides who to free and who to blame. Everybody won't be treated all the same…"

"Johnny Cash," Rossi observed. "From the song Owen was playing when he did this, right?"

"Taking names… collecting names. He's acting out his revenge fantasies," Reid concluded.

"The family, school and social dynamics do seem to fit perfectly," Dave agreed, soberly.

He turned to find Hotch giving him a questioning look.

"He's not collecting names – he's collecting injustices."

There was a dark moment while the three men stared down at the dead boys, lined up execution style on the riverbank. Chances were, if they didn't get to Owen soon, there would be more of these doleful sights around West Bune.

"We're ready to give the profile," Hotch said, heavily.

0o0

The sheriff's department of West Bune was not a collection of happy campers. They'd lost two of their men already, and four kids, all because of some useless punk that they all already hated. In a small town where everybody knew each other, this was bound to cause problems in unbiased law enforcement.

Not that their team could necessarily claim that today, either, Aaron reflected, one eye on Reid.

"When you've heard the profile you're understand," JJ told the deputy, her arms folded.

The deputy scoffed; he had been being difficult all day, according to JJ, who looked about five minutes away from strangling him. Aaron could understand his frustration – but it took a lot to push JJ to the edge.

"We are wastin' time," the deputy complained.

" _You_ are wasting time," Pearce growled, but quietly, so the man wouldn't hear.

Hotch was grateful for her attempt to keep the peace – she wasn't any happier about this than Reid was, but she was at least trying to keep it from the Sheriff's Department.

"Owen is here and we should be knockin' on doors!"

"Not a good idea," Aaron told him calmly.

"And why not?" the deputy demanded.

"Because Owen's watching," he explained. He's monitoring the news. Right now he thinks we think he's gone. He feels safe. If we start knocking on doors he's gonna know that he's not – he's gonna feel trapped."

"Why the hell should we care about this little bastard's feelings?"

Beside him, Aaron heard Pearce take a deep breath; she appeared to be counting, very quietly. He sent his junior agent a worried glance. Her fists were screwed up tight by her sides, maybe hard enough for the nails to cut her hands. The counting was a technique occupational health workers taught in lieu of formal anger management training.

He added the question that raised to the list he kept in his head, which included things like 'Why was half her file redacted?' and 'How do you even write up your agent's ability to see ghosts in official reports?'.

"Alright," JJ replied, losing her patience a little. "We're here to help _you_ bring in Owen Savage with minimum loss of life. The profile tells you the best way to do that."

 _So shut up and listen._

"Owen Savage fits the profile of the type of school shooter known as an injustice collector," Reid began, no longer prepared to wait for the deputy to acquiesce. "He's trying to avenge perceived wrongs."

"If he's a school shooter, why hasn't he hit the school yet?" the sheriff asked.

It was a fair question.

"Jordan," Prentiss explained, simply. "Most of these guys are so hopeless they just want to kill as many people as possible and commit suicide, but Jordan gives him a reason to live."

"It's probably an extension of that hope which is limiting his collateral damage," Grace added. "Byron Letts was in the wrong place at the wrong time – and so far he's the only one Owen's killed who hasn't hurt Owen or Jordan in the past."

For a moment, Aaron was worried she was going to end it there, but it seemed that she too had an eye on the shifting expressions among the crowd.

"At least – as it appears to him," she allowed.

On her other side, Reid gave a loud huff of annoyance at this concession.

There was an impending sense of doom in the taut way the young agent was holding himself, but he had always been a quick talker – and now his anger was making him reckless. Aaron was powerless to stop him.

"Otherwise, he's a textbook case," he said. "His life was one torment after another. His teachers gave up on him, his classmates bullied him, and his father blamed him while giving him access to guns."

It was rather like watching a train wreck.

Out of the corner of his eye, Aaron saw Pearce make a grab for Reid's cuff, trying to call him to a halt; he pulled it out of her reach, angrily.

"Given these conditions, you're actually quite fortunate!"

Aaron closed his eyes. The assembled constabulary of West Bune, Texas looked – by turns – furious and horrified as the implications of what Reid had said sank in.

"It sounds like you're sayin' these victims deserved this," the deputy pointed out, angrily.

"We're not – nobody deserves this," Aaron told him, hoping to mend the situation.

He hadn't counted on Reid, however.

"But you could have prevented it."

Over the shocked silence that followed, Aaron glanced in his direction.

"Reid, can I talk to you?"

He didn't leave him an option, just walked away into an empty office, trying to keep his manner calm – at least until they couldn't be overheard. Reid closed the door behind him with unnecessary force, making the blinds rattle. He launched into the tirade he'd been spoiling to give all day before Aaron had a chance to speak.

"It's the truth! They could have done something. They worked with his father – they knew Owen!"

"So what?" Aaron demanded angrily. He was as pissed off as Reid was about the whole mess, but the kid might have done irreparable damage to what was already a bad case. "All adolescents profile like sociopaths," he reminded him. "There's a reason you can't diagnose them until they're eighteen."

"Yeah, and they could have seen the signs!"

"Nobody sees the signs, Reid! You know that! And making it their fault is not only unfair, it's dangerous! I want you to go back to the Savage house, and I want you to go through Owen's room."

Reid wasn't even making eye contact anymore, he was so angry he was glaring at a point just above Aaron's left ear.

"Morgan's already doing that."

"Yeah, and you're gonna join him."

"Oh, you're punishing me?"

"No! I'm using you. You know this kid better than anybody – go find us something we can use!"

Reid grabbed his bag, apparently too angry to speak, and stormed out of the Sheriff's Department without a backward glance. The sheriff watched him go, a thoughtful, defeated look on his face that suggested he'd taken Reid's point of view rather to heart.

He sighed.

"He was out of line and I'm sorry," said JJ, trying her best to ameliorate the situation. "We wanna release the MPEG from Owen's computer to the media."

Hallam did not look convinced, so Aaron explained:

"He left it because he wants us to know why he's doing this – and by releasing it, it could temporarily dissipate his urge to kill and buy us some time."

"Time for what?" Sheriff Hallam asked.

"To figure out a way to bring him in peacefully," Aaron told him. "Jordan's innocent and Owen want's to die, and if you choose to go knocking on doors I think it's going to get her killed."

"After the funerals tomorrow, I won't have a choice," said the sheriff, far from happy. "Until then, you do what you think is best to find him and bring him in."

0o0

Derek prowled through the Savage house, looking for anything he might have missed. After Reid had shown up in high dudgeon he'd left him to Owen's computer for a little while, hoping he would cool off. A quick phone call to Prentiss had told him all he needed to know about why Reid thought Hotch was punishing him.

It was a wonder he hadn't chewed him out.

It was getting late now, and they had spent the last few hours combing through different parts of their killer's house. Reid was right where he'd left him, hunched over in the chair in Owen's dark room, going through his files.

"Garcia restored those emails?" Derek asked.

"Yeah – I'm sorting through them right now," said Reid.

He sounded calmer now, focussed entirely on his task – almost normal.

Derek sat on the bed, feeling frustrated. Someone had to talk to Reid, and it looked like he'd refused to listen to everyone else. Still, he was his best friend, and Derek was damned if he was going to let this go. The kid was clearly hurting – and taking it out on the folks of West Bune was a bit too close to the bone.

"Reid."

He looked around, startled out of his trawl.

"You know, you're not the only one who identifies with him," said Derek.

Both men ran their eyes over Owen's room, the trappings of a life going horribly, horribly wrong. Reid sighed and turned to face him, at least willing to listen this time.

"You said I was a high school jock," Derek began. "I was – but not at first. My freshman year I was five foot three."

That brought a smile to the kid's face; he could see him trying to picture it. Derek chuckled.

"I weighed a buck twenty soakin' wet, so trust me when I tell you I got my ass kicked every day. So, the following summer I hit the weights – and I got lucky, I grew six inches. But it was never about vanity, Reid. It was about survival."

He could tell the kid appreciated the effort, but he obviously wasn't particularly soothed by the admission. He'd hoped that by drawing a parallel between their negative experiences he might be able to help, but it seemed to have fallen short.

When Reid opened his mouth, the words came out almost painfully – he had to clear his throat several times, just to get started:

"I was in the library, and um – Harper Hillman comes up to me, and she tells me that – uh –Alexa Lisbon wants to meet me behind the field house."

Derek straightened up, not liking where this softly spoken anecdote was heading.

"Lexa Lisbon's, like, easily the prettiest girl in school."

They both smiled, sadly.

"So, what happened?" Derek asked. "Alexa wasn't there?"

"No, she was there," Reid admitted. "So was the entire football team."

Fleetingly, Derek closed his eyes.

"They… stripped me naked and tied me to a goal post. So many kids were there you know, just watching…"

He was speaking quietly, trying to pretend that this story meant nothing to him.

"Nobody tried to stop 'em?"

"Uh-uh." He shook his head. "I begged – I begged them to, but they just – they just watched." He paused, frowning. "Then, finally, they got bored and they left… it was, like, midnight when I finally got home, and my mom didn't" – his voice cracked under the weight of his admission. "Mom was having one of her episodes, so she didn't even realise I was late."

He chuckled, barely disguising the emotion in his voice, or the tears that were obviously threatening to betray him.

"You never told her what happened," Derek guessed.

Reid shook his head.

"I never told anybody, I thought…" he swallowed. "It was one of those things. I thought if I didn't talk about it I'd just forget, but I remember it like it was yesterday."

Derek sighed, averting his gaze. His friend sounded so hurt and so vulnerable right now. He vowed that if he ever came across a Harper Hillman or an Alexa Lisbon, or anyone who was provably on the football team at Reid's high school in the right time frame, he'd set Garcia loose on their digital lives.

"Aw, Reid," he commiserated. "You don't need an eidetic memory for that." He shook his head while his friend tried to collect himself. "You know, we forget half of what they teach us in school, but when it comes to the torment people inflicted on us, we've all got an elephant's memory."

"Owen just wants to forget," Reid remarked, quietly. "I know what that's like."

Somewhere outside, a floorboard creaked – both men turned towards the sound. Out in the hall, the screen door creaked shut.

"Hey guys, you in here?"

Pearce appeared in the doorway, looking weary, but pleased to see them. She was barely three words into her next sentence before Reid was on his feet.

"Hotch needs us –"

"What do you think you're doing?" Reid yelled at her.

It was like something he'd been holding taut inside him had finally snapped. Tall and suddenly extremely pale in the face, he looked strangely menacing.

Pearce stopped dead, gaping at her fellow agent in astonishment. Her hands had risen placatingly out of some kind of deeply buried instinct.

"Whoa – Spencer, what –"

"How dare you listen in on other people's private conversations?"

"Other – what? I was –"

Derek stood up, feeling he was lagging behind the situation somewhat. All the pent up anger his friend had been nursing since he'd set eyes on Owen Savage's file was coming out all at once. Pearce took a step back, flummoxed by the sudden onslaught.

"Reid, come on man, calm down –"

"Don't tell me to calm down! I'm not the one sneaking around, eavesdropping on a friend!"

"What? I wasn't –"

"No, man, she didn't –"

"How could you do that?"

He tried to get in between them, but Reid wasn't having any of it. To Derek's immense surprise, he found himself being pushed out of the way by a one hundred and eighty pound walking pipe-cleaner.

Reid was being driven by pure rage right now.

"Who the hell do you think you are? Huh? You act so self-righteous and when it comes to it you're no better than anybody else!" Reid's face was crimson now. He was looming over Pearce, only inches from her face now. "You think you have the monopoly on secrets? I hate to break it to you Grace, but you're not the only one who has stuff they'd rather leave behind!"

"Hey, that's enough!" Derek cautioned, wondering what the hell Reid was talking about.

From Pearce's expression, he surmised that she had a fair idea. He glanced at her, warily. Something in her manner and way of standing had altered, subtly. Her blue eyes flashed, dangerous. In the back of his head, Derek heard imaginary alarm bells begin to ring.

He could have sworn he could smell that same cordite and gunpowder scent that had lingered about the crime scene.

" _You need to take a step back_ ," she warned, through gritted teeth.

Aware that the no-holds-barred ex-beat cop that Derek was sure was lurking somewhere in her personality was waking up, he made another move to separate them. This time, both agents pushed him back.

"I'm not the one that needs to back off, Grace!" Reid sneered. "You think you're so high and mighty, trying to fix everyone's problems – sticking your nose in where you're not wanted. Well, I'm sick of it – I'm sick of _you_! I thought you were my friend!"

The contradictory nature of his argument appeared to have been the last straw for Pearce. It was her turn to snap.

"What the fuck am I supposed to have fucking heard?" she thundered, gesturing wildly into the unknown. "All I did was park up and walk in here – where you appear to have lost your fucking mind!"

"You are such a liar!" Reid shouted, sounding hurt – though whether it was at her imagined eavesdropping or the throwaway comment about insanity, Derek wasn't sure. "After everything I've told you – I trusted you – I –"

"I'm not bloody lying to you!" Pearce retorted, before throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Why am I even having this argument?" she demanded of herself.

She took a few, deep, steadying breaths then, with what seemed like a tremendous effort, Pearce forced her gaze away from her irate colleague's face and over to Derek.

"Hotch wants us back at the Sheriff's Department," she ground out, visibly shaking with anger now. "Both of your phones are off."

Feeling that he'd been left out of the loop somewhat, Derek stared between two of his closest friends; Reid was still burning with fury – though it had now rendered him incapable of speaking. Pearce on the other hand was fighting to contain her anger, sparked entirely in bewildered self-defence.

Both of them looked like they might kill the other, if left to their own devices.

"Alright, that's enough," he snapped, trying to sound calmer than he felt. "Both of you, in the car. We'll leave the deputies here in case something comes up."

"I'm not going anywhere with –" Reid protested, but Derek had had enough.

He hauled his friend bodily out of the front door and down the steps into the yard.

"Get in the car."

"Morgan!"

" _Get – in – the – car._ "

Furious, Reid turned on his heel, stomped to the SUV, wrenched open the passenger door and practically threw himself inside, slamming the door shut again behind him.

Pearce pushed the car keys into Derek's hand.

"You're going to have to drive," she told him, angrily. "I'm too fucking angry."

"You're tellin' me." He looked at her, and guessed from her body language that she was more hurt than anything else. "Listen, he's havin' a rough time – he didn't mean any of that. What he thought you heard – it was the kind of thing you wouldn't want anyone to know."

Pearce shook her head.

"He meant enough of it," she said darkly. Finally raising her eyes to his, she apologised for letting her temper get the better of her. "Sorry. That was unprofessional and pretty ugly. I shouldn't have let it get out of hand."

He brushed her off.

"Nah – it was nothing. Not like you haven't seen me do the same." Derek gave her a sly sideways glance. "But you gotta know, you got a mouth on you when you're pissed."

He was rewarded by the slightest of smiles, a faint crack in the storminess of her expression.

"Don't remind me." She glanced towards the car. "You know, that's the most seamlessly articulate I've ever heard him."

"That's the angriest I've ever heard him."

They shared a dark look. Pearce got in the back seat, taking somewhat elaborate care to glare out of the opposite window to Reid.

"Oh, this is gonna be a fun drive," Derek said to himself.

He looked up at the Savage house, wondering if there was something lingering in the house that temporarily drove people insane. He flirted with the idea of letting Hotch know about the meltdown one of his agents had just had, but decided against it.

For whatever reason, Reid had thought one of the most private conversations he had ever had had been spied on, and that would rile anybody up – particularly if they didn't want certain details shared. If he did it again, though, Hotch would be writing him up.

He opened the car door.

A frosty silence rolled out of it like fog. He rolled his eyes, deciding they needed to at least _try_ to focus on the case. In the car, Derek sighed.

"He's been makin' a big deal outta sayin' goodbye to Jordan in all of his emails," he said, over his shoulder. "None of it's shorthand – that's odd."

In the backseat, still rankled, Pearce frowned.

"He's playing a long game here. I think he thinks the two of them will be able to just slip away somewhere." She scratched the back of her neck, contemplatively. "In his head, he's the hero of her story – this is their happily ever after."

Temporarily jolted out of his funk, Reid turned to stare at Derek, realisation dawning.

"He never got to say goodbye to his mother," he profiled. "Abandonment is his biggest fear, that's why he picked Jordan – he thinks she'll never leave."

Pearce leaned forward, suddenly a part of the team again.

"And if she does?"

Reid turned worried eyes on Pearce, all animosity forgotten.

"We gotta get back," Derek decided, turning on the engine.


	8. Empathy for the Devil

**Essential listening: Hurt, by Johnny Cash**

 **0o0**

The three of them hurried into the Sheriff's Department, where Hotch and Emily were scowling at the murder board.

Reid, who was spear-heading the trail of agents currently stalking through the building, got there first.

"Owen's mother's death left him with severe issues of abandonment," he told them. "If we can get Jordan away from him, we'll save her and…" the reality of what he was saying flickered across his unhappy face. "Take away his reason to live."

Grace winced; sometimes this job felt like it was sucking the soul right out of you.

"He'll take his own life," Hotch remarked.

"It's the only way we can save Jordan," Morgan told him.

"Assuming we can get her away without him noticing," added Grace.

Their unit chief considered this for a moment.

"How can we get her to leave him?" he asked.

"Uh – he's kept Jordan in the dark, she doesn't know about the murders," Spencer suggested.

"You wanna tell her," Hotch inferred, examining their joyless faces.

"If we can," Morgan agreed.

"We can get her to turn herself in," said Emily, nodding.

"But even if we could talk to her, the only person she trusts is Owen," Hotch pointed out, spotting a potential spanner in the works of an already shaky plan.

Emily paused for a moment and then reached for her phone.

"There's one other person – she might be able to get a message to Jordan."

0o0

"Jordan doesn't know what Owen's done," JJ explained, trying to cajole Eileen into what felt like betraying her friends. "She has no idea of the danger she's in."

They were in her room – a space which profiled as a happy, well-adjusted teenager's room, and they had seen few enough of those in recent weeks – trying to get her to access Eileen's PDA account.

Eileen still had the charming innocence of youth as armour against the darker things in the world, and they didn't like to break it. They didn't have a great deal of choice in the matter, however, if they wanted to save her friend.

"No – Owen loves her. He would _never_ hurt her," she assured them.

"If the police find them and there's no way out, he _will_ ," Emily told her, firmly. "We've seen it before. Even if he doesn't, she'll get caught in the crossfire."

"We've seen that before, too," JJ added.

Eileen looked from one agent to the other, disbelieving.

Emily sighed, frustrated

"We are trying to save her," Emily coaxed. "You are the only person she'll listen to."

"We wanna send a text explaining the reality of the situation," JJ told her.

"You want to protect her and be her friend, this is your last chance," cajoled Emily.

Deeply unhappy, but also aware that FBI agents generally didn't spent their time lying to high school kids, Eileen gave in. She opened the PDA text box.

 _Jordan… there are some people here with me who want to talk to you._ She typed. _Listen to what they have to say. They are from the FBI. Here they are._

"You're doing the right thing," Emily told her gently, after she hit 'send'.

"It don't feel right!"

JJ followed her out of her room, while Hotch, Reid and Grace filed in, taking their places. They had been loitering in the hallway, and from their expressions Emily guessed they, too, felt more than a little skeevy for pressuring the girl into helping them. Sometimes, though, that was the job.

The feeling would leave them as soon as Jordan was safe.

They gathered around the computer, Reid taking Eileen's place at the desk when Jordan made contact.

"Send her the news coverage," Hotch instructed.

Reid did what he was told, slowly copying the link from the local news page to the PDA window.

"Tell her to look at the pictures," Emily advised him. "Tell her – uh – we know Owen didn't tell her what he did…"

Reid's typing was very slow, but accurate. The response came a few minutes later, when Jordan had had time to read the news coverage.

 _IT'S A LIE. YOU ARE LIARS!_

"Send the MPEG," Hotch suggested.

Reid looked up at him, surprised. It had been bad enough for them to witness it, and they dealt with this stuff every day – the effect on Jordan could be drastic.

Drastic appeared to be the order of the day, however.

"Reid."

Hurriedly, he got the USB out of his pocket and stuck it Eileen's laptop. Waiting for the file to load and transfer took longer than they expected, and Reid's subsequent typing was irritatingly slow.

"Tell her, when the police come for you, Owen will kill you and kill himself…" Emily proposed.

"Here."

Grace, who had apparently had enough of this, leaned over his shoulder and knocked his keyboard-clumsy hands away. Reid sent her a mild glare, but she was much faster at typing, and time was of the essence here; they didn't have long to wait for her reply.

 _You lie. Owen loves me._

"She's gone," Reid observed, reading the log off message. "Now what?"

"We've planted the seed, now we wait," Hotch told them, softly.

Emily bit her lip. Waiting at a time like this was a peculiar kind of agony. It felt like Jordan's life was balancing on a knife edge. None of the team was particularly good at practicing patience, despite their professional acquaintance with long hours of inactivity. Generally speaking, if there was ever a lull in a case they could keep their minds busy by processing evidence or wresting new information out of files or witnesses.

Having to wait around for a vulnerable young woman to choose her own fate while knowing that she could be killed at any moment was torture. There was nothing to distract themselves with now. Time itself seemed to be operating under different rules.

After about thirty seconds, Hotch began pacing. One minute in, and Reid was industriously chewing the inside of his mouth. At one minute thirty, Grace started tapping out a rhythm on her leg, a deep frown on her face.

Emily crossed and uncrossed her arms, glaring at Eileen's laptop, trying to will Jordan back online with the power of her mind alone. The tension in the room was palpable.

Reid scrubbed at his face, frustrated, and looked up at the irritable British agent beside him. She met his gaze sadly, their micro-expressions working overtime.

Emily, who had caught the movement, frowned at her friends. There seemed to be a lot more being communicated in that exchange of grimaces than she was party to – a notion that was quickly confirmed when Grace, apparently exhausted, began to turn away and Reid's hand encircled her wrist. Not forcefully, just enough to let her know that he was there, and that… what? He didn't want her to turn away? He felt bad about something?

Emily averted her gaze, a strange feeling stealing over her that she was witnessing something private, something intimate. She couldn't help but glance back a few seconds later, curiosity getting the better of her, but the moment – whatever it signified – had clearly passed. Both agents were now glowering at different parts of Eileen's bedroom, their impatience with the situation restored.

Briefly caught up in the enigma that was her friends' relationship, Emily jumped when Eileen's laptop loudly beeped. Jordan was back online. Instantly, the four agents clustered back around, ready to see some good news.

 _You were right. What do I do?_

"Ask her where she is," said Hotch.

Again, Grace leaned bodily over Reid's shoulder to type. This time he didn't put up any resistance at all, focussing instead on Jordan's precarious predicament.

 _If I tell you… you will hurt him._

"She's got our number, sadly," Grace said, with a grimace.

"She's not gonna give it up," Reid grimaced.

Hotch rubbed his face.

"Ask her if she can get away."

 _I can try._

Hope, for the first time on this case, began to blossom. There was a general relaxing of bodies, thought they all knew they weren't out of the woods yet.

"She's got moxie, I'll give her that," Grace remarked.

"They're probably within thirty minutes of town," Hotch remarked. "I'll have Morgan and Rossi keep a look out at the Sheriff's Department for her."

"Assuming she can get away…"

The words had no sooner left Emily's mouth when a new message flashed up on the screen, infinitely more sinister than before. Her heart leapt into her throat.

 _You turned her against me._

"It's not Jordan," Reid faintly.

Emily shook her head, horrified.

"Somebody, please tell me we didn't just get Jordan killed."

0o0

The team had split up again after Owen's message, disillusioned and feeling wretched about what they might have pushed him to do. Never quite resigned to losing a victim until their body turned up, they had forced themselves back on any track they could: JJ, Emily and Grace had gone back to the department to keep an eye on the locals while Morgan, Hotch, Rossi and Reid were back at Owen's house, which they were currently in the process of taking apart, desperate for any new clue.

JJ kind of envied them – and Grace had said as much as soon as they had arrived at the department and found nothing to do. Activity, however futile, would have been welcome.

"It was the right thing to do," JJ said aloud, more for her own benefit than for either of the others. They were probably engaged in a similar round of mental guilt and recrimination.

Grace nodded, though the rest of her expression didn't change.

Losing a victim was never easy.

"I know," said Emily. "I just – I really thought we could save her."

At the other end of the room, the main door opened, catching JJ's eye. Over Emily's shoulder, a slight, worried looking figure slipped inside.

"Emily," JJ gasped.

"I mean, we had no choice," Emily continued, needing to rationalise their decision.

Grace had turned, though, and – like JJ – had spotted the small, blonde woman on the threshold.

"Emily," she said, more urgently.

Emily took stock of their faces, confused, and turned around to find Jordan Norris hesitantly approaching the front desk, looking pale and afraid, and very upset.

"Jordan!" Emily exclaimed.

Relief flooded through the three women, rooting them to the spot as the duty sergeant rather stiffly greeted the girl.

"Now _that's_ moxie," Grace murmured.

They bundled her into an interview room where she could shed her tears in relative privacy, away from the prying eyes and ears of a force who quite desperately wanted the man she loved dead.

Grace fetched her a glass of water while they calmed her down enough to get her to tell them her part of the story.

"… I got to the car while Owen was… digging…" she told them, still silently crying. That had scared her – though she hadn't seen a body to go with the grave. "He didn't see me – until he heard me start the truck. He tried to stop me but I ju- I kept drivin'."

Grace put a comforting hand on her shoulder, which was trembling.

"We need to know where he is," Emily said, aware how hard this was going to be for her.

Jordan immediately started crying again, shaking her head.

"You're gonna hurt him," she protested.

"We don't wanna hurt Owen," Emily assured her. "But we think Owen might hurt himself, or someone else, if we don't get to him really soon."

Jordan looked at each of them in turn, her gaze settling on JJ, who seemed the kindest one there. She gave her a little nod of encouragement. The words took a little doing to get out, but she managed it.

"He's at – Stratman's ranch."

They nodded, trying not to look too relieved; Grace slipped out of the room to call the boys – they were closer right now.

"You're being so brave, Jordan," JJ told the shaking girl.

0o0

The ranch was empty, save the corpse of the owner, left in a partially-dug grave by the fence, but none of them had really expected Owen to stay there after Jordan had fled. He was looking for his famous last stand, and without Jordan there, the ranch just didn't mean enough to him.

Sheriff Hallam came out of the farmhouse waving a piece of notepaper.

"Found a note," he said, handing it to Aaron.

"'I'm going to return my mom's necklace,'" he read aloud. "He may be going home to get it. We didn't find it, but it could be there. Sheriff, you go there."

"And you?" Hallam asked.

"Where's his mother buried?" Aaron asked.

The sound of Velcro being ripped open made Hotch turn, startled. Reid was taking off his protective vest, a determined sort of look on his face.

"Reid, what are you doing?" Aaron questioned him, astonished.

"He's gonna force us to kill him," Reid declared, in a hollow, quiet voice. "I don't need to be a part of that. I – I mean… You don't need me."

Aaron watched his face for a second, seeing in his young friend the troubling shadow of a man who had encountered his limit. There was something else in his expression, too, something Aaron couldn't place. There wasn't time to dwell on it now, however.

He took the vest Reid offered him, numbly wondering whether he would shortly be reading the second resignation letter in a year.

"Meet me at the station," Aaron told him, hurrying away.

0o0

"We will do everything in our power to see that no one hurts him," Grace said, trying to comfort the young woman currently sobbing against JJ's shoulder.

She glanced up at Emily. It wasn't really working.

The sound of hurried footsteps brought them both to their feet; Spencer was hastening through the Sheriff's Department, apparently intent on reaching the murder board. Grace opened her mouth to question him, but something in his manner made her stop. A sense of uneasiness stole over her as she and Emily left JJ and Jordan to meet him.

"They think he's going to his mother's grave," Spencer told them, pulling the picture of Owen's mother off the board.

" _They_ think?" Grace repeated.

"Isn't he?" Emily asked.

He shot past them, into the side office. Jordan looked up at him, big-eyed and shocked. Grace began to appreciate how she felt.

"He was gone when we got to the ranch," Spencer said urgently, showing Jordan the photograph from Owen's computer. "I wanna save his life, but I need to ask you a question. This necklace." He pointed at the necklace in the photograph, a silver pendant spelling out the word _'Hope'_. "He gave it to you?"

"Uh... I left it at the ranch," she stammered, a little dazed by his blunt and urgent manner.

Without hesitation, Spencer hurried back out of the room, caught in his own, personal whirlwind.

"He's coming here," he told them.

"Wh-" JJ gasped, shocked.

Grace shared a look with Emily and ran after Spencer, her gun already in her hand. Emily was close behind, having lingered long enough to tell JJ to call the others and keep Jordan safely inside.

"What the bloody hell is he playing at?" Grace hissed, as the two women followed an agitated Reid out into the noonday sun.

There were too many people out on the street – just out, living their daily lives. West Bune might be a small town, but the main street was the hub; it was a bottleneck, hard to clear quickly and impossible to defend without major backup. The perfect setting for a dramatic last stand.

And they were stretched pretty thin as it was, thanks to Reid.

"What makes you think he'll come here?" Emily asked, as all three of them scanned the multitude of possible entry points, disregarding any they felt lacked dramatic presence.

There were too many, and they were too few.

"It's what I would do."

Emily and Grace shared a frightened, knowing glance. If it came to a firefight it would just be the two of them: every officer with weapons training was at the Savage house and the other team had gone to intercept Owen at the cemetery. If Reid's bizarre behaviour was anything to go by, they wouldn't be able to count on him this time.

Grace moved along the street a little way, trying to get a better view. She was looking the wrong way, though, when Spencer raised the alarm. Grace followed his gaze to the dark figure at the end of the road. Her instincts kicked in and she ducked down behind the car, taking what cover she could find.

"Prentiss," Spencer said, taking out his weapon and handing it to her. "Guys, cover me."

"Whoa, what – Reid, what – _Reid!_ "

" _Spencer!_ "

" _Do not shoot_ ," he insisted, over Emily's appalled sputtering.

And with that, he walked out into the middle of the street, unarmed and unprotected, leaving both his colleagues hissing urgently after him.

"Oh, _fucking hell!_ "

Dismayed, Grace steadied herself against the body of the car, trying to get a good look at Owen. All down the street, people were beginning to recognise him – and the end of the automatic weapon sticking out of his coat. She lined the tortured boy up in her gunsight, vowing that if Spencer Reid got out of this alive she would beat him to death with his own book-bag.

"Owen, I don't have a gun," Spencer declared, neatly stepping between Grace and the boy with the assault rifle.

She swore again, and moved as close to the edge of the car as she dared, trying to keep the kid in her sights. Spencer was quickly onto her, though, placing himself in her line of fire.

"Move!" she hissed, under her breath, cursing his ability to read her.

 _How am I supposed to protect you if you're right in the bollocking way?_

She stared, desperately at the drama unfolding on the street in front of her. Startled by Reid's reckless behaviour, Owen hesitated a few hundred feet away, his hands already on his gun.

"My name is Spencer. I'm with the FBI, and I'm here to help you."

"Yeah? I need you to stay back!" Owen shouted.

With a screech of tires, one of the bureau SUVs pulled up and three more agents piled out. Hotch and Rossi took up defensive positions beside the car while Derek swiftly moved the slower onlookers out of danger.

The momentary reprieve this bought them was instantly lost when Spencer, sending a frantic look over his shoulder, side-stepped to keep himself between Owen and all of their weapons. No one could get a clean shot now, not until Owen shot their friend.

 _Unless_. Grace reminded herself. _Unless_ Owen shot their friend.

"I know the only reason you joined the team was because of your father. I know that he blamed you for what happened," Spencer called, placatingly, still moving slowly closer to his target.

"Stay back! Right where you are!"

He was screaming, but for now the gun continued to point at the ground, as though he was unwilling, still, to take out anyone who wasn't his enemy or directly in his way.

Grace stared at the assault rifle, desperately trying to figure out if she knew enough about the thing to make it safely come apart in his hands.

"I also know – the only reason you killed Rod Norris and Kyle Borden was to protect Jordan," Spencer continued urgently, some of his own emotion coming through his voice. "I know the harder you tried, the worse it got – and it felt like everybody just stood there, watching you suffer. Not a single person even tried to help."

"They didn't – they didn't."

Owen sounded distraught, but he was engaging with Reid now, even if it was the smallest of concessions.

Spencer looked around again, as if sensing Morgan coming round the other side of the car. Again, he put himself in their way.

"What's he doing?" Grace heard Rossi demand.

"He's blocking our shot!"

That was Hotch, who sounded about as pissed as she felt.

"I know you want to escape," Spencer told Owen, softening his tone now, drawing the boy in. "And forget. Believe me when I say I know – I know _exactly_ how that feels."

There was a pause where Grace began to wonder whether this rash, idiotic plan of his was actually working.

"You know what?" Spencer told him, as if revealing the mysteries of the universe. "You don't have to die."

"No!" Owen cried. "No, I'm already dead!"

Spencer cast another look around – this time at Grace and Emily, still marking him from the scant cover the cars and buildings provided.

"No – no, you're not dead," he told him, almost breathlessly. "If you die, you're going to leave Jordan – just like your mother left you."

That got through to him. The anguish on Owen's face was obvious.

"I know you don't want that," Spencer coaxed. "Do you?"

"Okay," Owen replied, after a moment, a good deal of his bravado dissolving. "You bring her to me, alright? You bring her outside!"

"I can't bring her outside, Owen, but," Spencer swallowed, aware of the risk he was taking. He almost had him – he just had to draw him in. One false move now could bring the whole thing crashing down. "You put the gun down? I swear to god – I'll take you to her. I promise nobody will hurt you."

Owen looked at him, his agitation beginning to fall still, affected by the earnest note he could hear in Spencer's voice. Whether this heralded pacification or the numbness that preceded slaughter, it was impossible to tell.

"You'll say goodbye to her – and you'll give her the necklace."

In the middle of the deserted intersection, Owen choked back tears. This was not how he had been expecting this to play out. Spencer had given him no way out – and the knowledge that his death wasn't necessarily inevitable. He had badly shaken his resolve. Grace kept her gun steady in her hands, praying that the good kid Owen had been before life had turned him into this was still in there somewhere.

"Alright? So what do you say?" Spencer coaxed, gently. "Just put the gun down. Let's go inside…"

The world seemed to hang on that moment, as Owen cast about for a reason to kill himself and everybody else he could reach – suicide by cop – and Spencer cast about for other things that might make him choose to live. Then Owen wiped the sweat from his upper lip and shrugged off the strap that was holding the assault rifle against his shoulder. He walked towards Reid and placed it gently on the ground in front of him.

The others moved in instantly, surrounding them both. As the nearest agent, Grace got there first, holstering her weapon as soon as she knew Morgan and Rossi had him covered.

"Don't move, Owen," she commanded – not loudly. Of all of them, she had been close enough to see him fold. He didn't want to leave Jordan. He wouldn't resist them now if he had a chance at seeing her one last time. "Hands behind your back."

"Don't move!" Morgan shouted, coming up behind her.

She cuffed him and patted him down, confiscating the brutal hunting knife in the boy's belt.

"The necklace. Which pocket?" she asked.

"Left," he said, in a small voice.

Further down the street, the officers of West Bune began to arrive, sirens wailing. Rossi went to head them off, confident now that Owen was contained.

Wishing they could have interceded months before he'd become this monster, she fished the silver chain out and handed it over to Reid, who was anxious that his promise to the kid be fulfilled. They walked him over to the building, where she let Morgan take Owen's arm (Spencer was still firmly attached to the other).

He didn't put up any kind of fight as they bundled him through the door.

Grace leaned back against the sun-warmed brick of the building and let out the breath she'd been holding since Spencer had taken his first, reckless step out into the road. She rubbed her face, meeting Rossi's eyes across the small bubble of badge-wearing foot traffic that had formed around the front door.

That had been too damn close.

0o0

The others had been avoiding him, probably anticipating (as he was) the inevitable maelstrom of censure he had coming in the near future. The dressing down would be severe – he hadn't left Hotch much of an option – and he'd probably receive an official reprimand.

Spencer couldn't help but feel bringing Owen in without having to watch him die had been worth it.

He left them saying goodbye to Sheriff Hallam and those of his deputies who could still stand them and slipped out onto the dark airstrip. The light went quickly in the desert, a phenomena he recognised from Nevada, heightened here by their more southerly position. The lights of their small, official jet spilled out on the black tarmac like puddles of gold.

Weary but content, Spencer trudged up the steps. Expecting to be the first one in, he was astonished to find Grace already slumped on the bench seat by the kitchenette, one arm thrown over her eyes.

He bit his lip: she looked exhausted. Spencer dropped his bag by the smaller table seat. At least some of that had to be because of him. Resolving to try to make amends, he cleared his throat.

Grace dropped her arm, realised who he was and gave him a look of such utter aversion that the words caught in his throat.

"H-hey," he stammered, before pulling himself together. "I – uh… I wanted to apologise – for… I shouldn't have lost my temper – you… you clearly – you hadn't been snooping around or anything. I'm sorry."

Grace's eyes narrowed and she brought her fist to her mouth for a moment, a small, angry smile on her face.

"You're… Hah." She gave a hollow chuckle. "You're sorry for losing your temper? Is that it?"

Beginning to feel that he might have made an error in starting this conversation on the jet, he tried again.

"I – I don't know what else to say."

She forced a laugh and shook her head. Slowly, and with oddly deliberate movements, she got to her feet and crossed the few feet of carpet that separated them. Spencer scrutinised her face, suddenly wary. The measured, slightly jerky steps were a conscious effort, he realised, to disguise how furious she really was – or perhaps an attempt to prevent herself from acting on it. He leaned back slightly when she stopped less than a foot away, her hands balled into fists at her side.

He swallowed, realising that he was actually a little afraid of her.

"What in heaven's name did you think you were doing?" she asked, in a remarkably calm voice.

"I was trying to save a kid's life –" he began, but she overruled him.

From the look of her, she wasn't in the mood to do much in the way of listening.

"You stepped out in front of a suspect," she hissed. "You stepped out in front of a suspect without body armour, or a gun, in a street full of people. On purpose. You blocked everyone's shot, when the guy facing you had an automatic assault weapon."

She was breathing pretty hard, fighting to maintain some kind of cool – and failing. Spencer's mouth went dry. He had never seen her this angry.

"I had – I had to try."

"What the fuck were you thinking?" she shouted, making him jump. "How could you even believe that would work?"

He moistened his lip, wanting very much to remind her that, in fact, it had worked out quite well, but aware that this might feasibly constitute a suicide attempt.

"You walked out there, not a thought for anyone else, and left Prentiss and me to pick up the pieces!" she thundered. "What if he'd shot you? What if he'd shot someone else? Not a terribly accurate weapon, the assault rifle! I just watched you walk out into a street and go stark bollock crazy!"

Grace was red in the face now, while he felt himself blanching. There was a strange smell in the air – kind of like gunpowder, or the smell you got when it rained.

"How could you be so fucking stupid?" she snarled. "Pulling a stunt like that in the field is reckless and idiotic – and if you ever, _ever_ do it again, I will kill you myself!"

Abruptly, she span away and stormed down to the other end of the jet.

Against his better judgement, Spencer followed her.

"Grace –"

"Don't. Not right now," she warned him, too angry even to look at him. "Don't fucking talk to me."

He swallowed, suddenly feeling wretched – not for what he'd done. He'd considered it an acceptable risk at the time and he would stand by his actions. This sudden twist in his stomach had nothing to do with that, and everything to do with the wounded indignance on his friend's face. Roughly, she yanked her book out of her go bag and took her seat, as far away from him as she could get without actually leaving the jet.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, miserably, and left her to calm down.

Sinking into his own seat, he could hear the voices of the others now, making their way across the airstrip. He frowned at the table as they filed on, reasonably certain that they would continue to shun him until they were back in Quantico. Grace's wrath had taken him aback. He hadn't expected her to feel so strongly about his tactics – and the last thing he'd wanted had been to hurt her.

He couldn't understand it – it was probably the same kind of chance that she would have taken, if she had to. Putting your own life at risk was part of the job, surely she could appreciate that. Worrying at the inside of his mouth, he wondered what he would have done if their positions had been reversed.

Belatedly, it occurred to him that he might have been tempted to shoot her, if she had done the same thing.

He squinted out of the window. Maybe the 'calculated risk' had been more reckless than he had imagined.

0o0

 _We cross our bridges when we come to them, and burn them behind us with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke and a presumption that once, our eyes watered._

 _Tom Stoppard_

0o0

Time had dulled the ache Grace's jarring response had elicited and Spencer had been staring out into the night while the others wound down; not entirely happy, but at least content that he had done what he had set out to do. At least for tonight, Owen Savage was alive and facing the consequences of his actions – and knowing that at least the FBI cared about what had been done to him as much as what he had done.

He'd have to do some repairs on his friendships among his team-mates, but he suspected that ultimately, they would understand. Idly, he played with John's medallion under the table, trying to convince himself that it was okay Grace was livid at him as long as it meant that she cared.

He looked up as Hotch folded himself into the seat opposite, ready for the dressing down he probably deserved. Spencer met his eyes almost timidly, feeling sheepish, as his boss collected his thoughts.

"You knowingly jeopardised your life and the lives of others," he said, coolly.

Spencer didn't bother to deny it – there wasn't any point. He knew exactly what he had done. He nodded, silently, feeling a lot like a schoolboy who had disappointed his headmaster. Getting reprimanded was horrible when your boss was also your friend.

"I should fire you."

That got his attention. His eyes flicked back up to Hotch's face. The possibility of being fired had never even occurred to him; he felt his heart speed up in horror.

 _Hotch had said 'should'._

"You're the smartest kid in the room," Hotch scolded him, with characteristic intensity, echoing his earlier statement, "but you're not the only one in that room."

Spencer bit his lip.

"You pull something like this again, you will be – am I clear?"

Spencer nodded emphatically.

"Yes, sir," he said, adding with absolute certainty, "It won't happen again. Thank you," he said, and meant it.

Hotch glowered at him for a moment before relaxing slightly, pleased that his words had sunk in.

"What were you thinking?" he asked, curious.

"I was thinking that would be the second time a kid died in front of me," he said, after a moment.

"You're keeping score, just like Owen," Hotch inferred, mild worry on his face.

Spencer smiled slightly, amused at himself

"It was my turn to save one."

The faintest approach to a smile appeared at the corner of Hotch's mouth.

"It doesn't work like that."

"It should."

There was a pause where he couldn't quite bring himself to look at the man.

"I know it's painful when the person you identify with is the bad guy," Hotch said, gently.

One of Spencer's eyebrow quirked up.

"What's that make me?" he asked, cursing everyone's ability to read him so easily.

"Good at the job."

This time the pause felt easier, more natural. Hotch got up to go back to his seat.

"I know it's none of my business, but when we land I think you should go and, uh… catch the rest of that movie," he said, lightly, patting Spencer on the shoulder.

Touched, Spencer smiled and looked down at the medallion in his hand. That was one of the benefits of having a boss who was also your friend.

He understood.

0o0

It was a little clump of turbulence that woke her. A micro-burst, if Reid's usual diagnosis was to be believed. It shook her awake.

Grace groaned. The unnatural position she'd angrily curled up in had already tied the muscles in her back and neck into knots. The jet was dark now; everyone else was asleep (hopefully excluding the pilot). She peered out of the window into an endless sea of black, spattered with the tiny silver glow of a billion stars. They were still a few hours out, by the look of it, and she needed more sleep.

She also needed to move. Quietly, so as not to wake the others, she got up and stretched, trying to pull out the kinks in her legs. Knowing she wouldn't get back to sleep now if she didn't at least make an effort at it, she strolled along the jet, coaxing her joints into action. Someone had tucked a blanket around her while she slept, while was rather touching. She wondered which one of her teammates had done it.

The others were well out of it, and if she had had her phone to hand, Grace would have taken a picture: Emily with her book still propped open, oblivious; JJ comfortably coiled around a pillow opposite; Morgan slumped down in his seat, his headphones still on; Rossi snoring loudly; Hotch dozing, a stack of files open in front of him.

She could see Spencer's feet sticking out of the last seat; involuntarily, her mouth twisted sideways into a frown. She had done some stupid things in her time, but this?

If he'd been an officer on her team back home she'd have had him up before Lightfoot, trying to explain why he didn't need a six-week psych assessment. He'd have found himself back in traffic, or confined to the office for a month, partnered up with the most irritating DC she could find.

Spencer was curled up in his seat, his head resting comfortably against the side of the jet. Even asleep he seemed tranquil, more centred – like he had successfully tested his own limits and found himself equal to them.

Conceding that she had been the impetuous and rash member of a team before now, she glowered at him, unpleasantly aware of how her past impatience might have cost her colleagues. Annoyed, she pulled the blanket she was wrapped in off her shoulders. He didn't stir when she draped it over him, careful not to wake him, though he instinctively drew it closer in his sleep.

Grace stalked back to the bench seat, wondering what it was about him that made her angry enough to punch through a wall.


	9. In Heat

**Essential listening: El Agua de la Vida, by Salsa Celtica**

 **0o0**

The apartment was in pitch darkness when she opened the door.

Penelope flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. Surprised that the bulb could have gone (she'd only changed it the week before), she walked further in, closing the door behind her. Something made her hold onto her keys and bag – some tiny hint that something was wrong: that she wasn't alone.

In the kitchen area, a light flared and her heart nearly stopped.

"I turned the breaker off."

"Oh!" Penelope yelped.

The shadows dissipated somewhat to reveal Kevin Lynch, who couldn't look sinister if he tried, lighting a candle at her kitchen table.

" _Kevin!_ " she admonished, heart still hammering in her rib-cage. "You scared me! It's becoming your thing!"

It hadn't been that long since she had nearly been murdered here, after all.

"Well, maybe you scare too easily," he replied.

"Wh-" she began, intending to argue. Her eyes fell on the table, which currently held what looked like a romantic dinner for two. "What's this?" she asked instead.

"Oh – uh – since you couldn't make it to dinner, I thought I would bring dinner to you," Kevin explained, with a lopsided grin.

"Oh, Kevin," she cooed, flattered.

He produced a strawberry from some unknown location and held it up for her.

"Wanna start with dessert?" he suggested, lewdly.

Penelope grinned as he popped it between his teeth.

"Oh, I always said I wanted to try this when I was a grown-up," she said, taking a bite. "Mmm," she laughed.

"Or oo slessed ow," Kevin remarked, the majority of the strawberry still in his mouth.

"What?" she asked, taking it out.

"You're too stressed out," he repeated.

"You didn't like that?"

"No, that's why you scare so easily – you're so stressed."

"I have a stressful job," she explained.

"You know, maybe we should get away," he proposed.

"You mean like a vacation?" Penelope asked, surprised.

"Yeah!" He smiled, and Penelope's heart began to do belly-flops. "You deserve a week in the land of no keyboards."

"I don't know what I'd do with myself," she admitted.

Kevin flashed her a downright lecherous grin – which she very much appreciated – and held up a can of whipped cream.

"I can think of a couple things."

"Oh," said Penelope, happily. "Oh, that is something else I have always wanted to try!"

0o0

 _There are no secrets better kept than the secrets everybody guesses._

 _George Bernard Shaw_

0o0

The airport had been air conditioned, so (thankfully) were the SUVs, but the moment you stepped out of a regulated space in Miami, you knew about it.

Grace slipped out of the Yukon behind Rossi, pulling a face at the wave of roiling heat that washed over her. Several of her fellow agents groaned, suggesting they weren't doing much better. She immediately peeled off her jacket, grateful JJ had given them ample warning to pack office wear that better suited the climate.

"Urgh," said Reid, a few feet ahead. "Is it always this hot?"

Morgan laughed, his eyes on the bottoms of two tight-skirted women who were sauntering by, their heels clicking in the midday sun.

"Every day, all day," said Morgan, appreciatively.

"That's South Beach," Rossi agreed.

"Down boys," Grace chided, tolerantly.

"That's not what I'm talking about," Reid told them.

"They know." Hotch met them at the back of the SUVs and curtailed any possible teasing.

They looked up as their contact appeared – a good looking, competent woman who ran her eyes over all of them and made straight for Morgan.

"FBI?" she asked, looking at him in much the same manner he had been looking at the pedestrians. "Detective Lopez, Miami PD."

She held out a hand.

"Oh, uh – Morgan," he replied, oozing the kind of cool that would make a fortune if anyone could figure out how to box it up and sell it. "Derek."

Grace hid a smirk. It was unlike him to get flustered, and he hid it well, but obviously Detective Lopez was exactly his type.

"Tina." She looked at the others, confident that Morgan wouldn't forget her. "So, thank you for comin' down so quickly."

"Agent Jareau – JJ," said JJ, shaking her hand. "We spoke on the phone."

"Yes."

"These are agents Hotchner, Prentiss, Pearce, Rossi, _Derek_ and Doctor Reid."

Lopez grinned.

"Well, I hope there's no test, 'cause I'm lousy with names."

Grace liked her a great deal.

"'Agent' will be fine," Rossi assured her.

"Hey – isn't that –?" Emily jabbed a finger towards a man getting out of a nearby car.

 _Well I never_ , thought Grace.

Detective William LaMontagne Junior, of the New Orleans Police Department, came striding towards them. The team had worked with him in New Orleans to take down a female serial killer targeting men in the French Quarter – Grace's very first case with the BAU. It seemed like an extremely long time ago now, though in reality it was only just more than a year.

Will was a good officer, and a great guy. It was weird seeing him in Miami – like something out of an alternate reality.

"Detective LaMontagne just arrived from New Orleans, to ID the cop we pulled from the bay last night," Lopez explained.

"Detective – it's… good to see you," said JJ, shaking his hand.

By turns, a disbelieving movement passed through the group; they all knew full well about JJ's weekends in New Orleans, just as much as they knew she might never actually admit to them. Grace forced the smirk off her face as her fellow agents made an effort to do the same.

If JJ wanted to fool herself into thinking none of them knew she and LaMontagne were dating, that was her business.

"How are ya?" he greeted them, in his slow, sugary Louisiana accent. "Yeah, uh – Charlie Luvet and I worked together for seven years," he explained, sadly. "We haven't formally IDed him yet, but… we believe it's him."

"Sorry for your loss, man," said Morgan.

Will nodded.

"So, you all know each other?" Lopez asked.

"Uh – professionally," said JJ.

Grace rested her gaze just above Lopez's head, where she could use it to prevent herself laughing.

"Yeah…" said the detective, clearly a little put out by JJ's secretive behaviour. "The BAU helped me out on a case about a year ago. Just for the sake of clarity, I'm not here to investigate," he told them. "Charlie was – uh – was supposed to be married this August."

Grace frowned, no longer feeling like laughing.

"So if the guy who floated up last night was him, looks like I have the honour of notifyin' his fiancée. So she's gonna need some answers, closure," he said. "I'm just here to get that for her."

"Do you know why he was here?" Rossi asked.

"Well, he was meetin' up with some college buddies to compete in a regatta," said Will. "He was a big boat guy."

"So he wasn't travelling alone?" Hotch clarified.

"Oh, he came alone," Will explained. "He was meetin' them here."

"We should track these friends down, see if they saw anything," Rossi announced. "And the – uh – two other victims," he continued, to Lopez. "Any potential witnesses?"

"No. Paul Hayes was here alone on business, Daniel Brown came down to wind-surf by himself."

"They were all essentially alone," Reid observed.

"The unsub watched them long enough to know that," Emily remarked.

"Tourists," said Grace, looking around. "A new place, somewhere you let your hair down… It can make you vulnerable, no matter how careful you are."

"He's probably scopin' out his next victim," Lopez griped. This case was plainly weighing heavy on her. "And I don't have a damn thing to warn people with. So come on inside, I got everythin' set up."

They followed her in, LaMontagne shaking hands and clapping shoulders as they went.

"How are you guys?" He shook Morgan's hand and grinned sadly at Reid. "It's good to see ya. I gotta say, I'm glad you guys are here, for Charlie's sake."

0o0

JJ got almost all the way up the stairs inside the department before Will caught up with her. Cursing her luck, she allowed him to draw her aside.

She had never felt terribly comfortable about the rest of the team knowing about her love life – it was bad enough living in each others' pockets at the best of times, but when you added in the fact that they were all essentially human lie-detectors it could feel a little overbearing. The thought of all of them staring at her, making judgements, taking guesses about the nature of their relationship made her feel a little light-headed.

She did it enough herself to know that even with the best will in the world, none of her colleagues would be able to prevent themselves. Everyone had known about Hotch's divorce, even before he had. Reid's emotional problems after his abduction in Atlanta had been painful to watch unfolding, though any other team might have missed them. Whenever Morgan had a new girlfriend it was all they talked about for a week – hell, there was even a surreptitious betting pool on Grace and Reid getting together (technically 'again', but no one besides JJ was party to that particular piece of information), though the odds had looked better on that before West Bune.

That in itself was a case in point: Grace had been coolly civil around him for nearly two weeks now, which was very unlike her, and Spencer seemed reluctant to speak to her. They had gone from being the closest of friends to mere work acquaintances in a matter of hours.

JJ, Emily and Garcia had been trying to work that one out all week.

In the BAU, your life was never your own, but someone from off the team might not understand.

"What was that?" Will asked, confirming her suspicions.

"What was what?" she asked, quietly, aware her colleagues were barely a flight of stairs away.

"'Professionally'?"

She looked away, feeling uncomfortable. This was not a conversation she wanted to have – particularly in the stairwell of a Miami Police Department.

"Hey," he said, purposefully recapturing her attention. "You still haven't told them about us?"

"It's none of their business," she explained.

"Whaddya tell them about where you go every weekend?" he asked, puzzled.

"I – I don't."

JJ stared at him, confused at how he couldn't seem to grasp the concept of secrecy.

"Are you – are you ashamed, or something?" he asked, beginning to look distinctly hurt.

"What?" she gasped, surprised. "No!" She smiled, and he relaxed slightly. "No it's just – in this team, everyone knows everything about everyone. There's no privacy. My personal life is one last thing they can profile." She glanced up at the offices, concerned that someone might notice their absence. "We should get up there."

"Yeah, wouldn't want your team to think somethin's up, would we?" Will scowled.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," JJ exclaimed, stopping him. She was a little taken aback by his attitude. "Please don't do this, okay?"

"You realise that this is gonna happen every now an' then, when our career paths cross, right?"

"Doesn't make it any less awkward," she remarked, one eye on the door above them, in case someone came looking for them.

"Yeah – wow," Will said, tersely. "Never realised how much 'awkward' could sound like 'ashamed'."

He left her there, angrily heading into the office above; JJ stared after him, despairing.

People who didn't work with profilers twenty-four seven just didn't understand.

0o0

"This is everything we recovered from Paul Hayes' hotel room," Detective Lopez told them, leading Dave and Prentiss into an empty space off the main office. "It's all been processed, so don't worry about touching anything."

"Thank you," said Prentiss.

"I'm'nna take the skinny kid, the Brit and Derek out to the dump-sites," she told them. "So, I got my cell, radio – if anyone doesn't give you anything, just call me."

"Great!"

Dave shared a look of pure amusement with Prentiss as Lopez headed out the door.

"She did say she wasn't good at names," he smirked.

"Remembered 'Derek'."

Rossi snorted.

"Wonder how she'll describe us," he said.

"Oh, I am sure I don't want to know." She sighed, as they rifled through the evidence. "It's always sad seeing someone's life reduced to the things they had with them when they died. It's just so clear they didn't know how short their time would be."

0o0

No matter what was going on in your relationship, it was always hard to watch someone you cared about suffer.

Will was trying to force away his emotions when the coroner peeled back the sheet, but Luvet had been a good friend, and that kind of grief was hard to hide. JJ had to fight the urge to hold him, but she couldn't do that – not in front of Hotch. Respecting her boundaries, despite the desperate unhappiness of the situation, Will turned away.

"Yeah, that's him," he announced. "That's Charlie Luvet."

He sighed.

"We had to ID more than the photo before we could ship him," the coroner explained, as gently as she could. "You're not family, but – I can cut through the red tape."

"Thank you," said Will, his voice made strange with feeling.

Needing to help in any way she could, JJ stepped forward.

"If you need help making arrangements, uh- liaising with families is part of what I do."

It was the least she could do, in the circumstances.

"I might just take you up on that," he said, not able to look at any of them. "'Scuse me I'm'nna – I'm'nna be outside."

She watched him go, unhappily.

0o0

The dumpsite was actually _on_ the beach.

Despite the nature of the visit, Grace had to admit she was rather enjoying herself. The scenery was breathtaking and the heat – once you acclimatised – was kind of relaxing, like being in a bubble of tropical, sun-soaked air. As long as no one asked her to lift anything heavy or chase down a suspect, she decided she could quite happily cope with it, at least for a few days.

Virginia was in the grip of a cold snap, despite the usual stickiness of summer, and it had been raining for nearly three weeks straight. It reminded her of being back in England. A couple of days of hot weather was just what she needed.

The beach was full of semi-naked bodies, all making the most of their time in the sun. It was a bit of a trial stepping around them through the hot sand. The beaches of Grace's youth had predominantly been a bit damp and a bit pebbly, and for the first time she felt a pang of jealousy for the tourists relaxing on the beach. Still, they were here to do a job, not to sightsee.

She, Morgan and Reid strolled along beside Lopez, discussing the case, trying to keep things focussed despite the heat.

"Paul Hayes was found in that dumpster over there," she told them, indicating one of the few shady points on the entire promenade, in the lee of a small building.

"It's kind of exposed," Grace observed, looking around. "This beach get quiet at night?"

"Quieter," Lopez allowed. "People move to the clubs instead."

"Hey, I think these guys knew the unsub," said Reid.

Grace glanced in his direction, trying not to let her personal feelings get in the way of a good profile. She still hadn't entirely forgiven him for the stunt he'd pulled in West Bune.

"What makes you say that?" Morgan asked.

"When you're a fish out of water you look to the locals for where to eat, where to shop," he said.

"What path to run," Morgan added.

"Yeah, why would he kill them and risk dragging the body across the beach?" Reid postulated.

"He wouldn't," Morgan realised. "They were already out here."

"You think they met him out here?"

"Look around," said Grace. "It's the perfect hunting ground."

"This place is full of people letting their guard down, making new friends…" said Reid.

She caught him looking at her, behind his shades, and turned away. When she'd first got to Virginia, the whole team had helped her get used to her new city – and her new country – but none more so than Reid.

She sighed, following Morgan and Lopez back to the Yuke.

0o0

JJ pulled on her gloves, stepping back into Luvet's hotel room. The two forensic technicians on the balcony had been happy for them to have a look around, now their trace examination was complete.

Hotch and Will were rummaging around the detective's things, trying to find any kind of link to the other victims.

"So, they've already dusted for prints," she told them.

"I'd sure feel better if we found his gun and shield," Will remarked. "I'm thinkin' if someone tried to grab him up here, he mighta left 'em behind, you know."

JJ grimaced. She couldn't imagine having to go through a friend's possessions like this. It was unthinkable.

"Charlie left the hotel voluntarily," Hotch announced, unfolding a receipt.

"What makes you say that?"

"'Cause we'd know if the valet had his car downstairs," the unit chief explained. "This is a receipt for a Mercury Sable he rented. You know, most rental cars have locators in. I'll call Garcia, see if she can find out where it is right now."

JJ was rummaging through Luvet's suitcase when she felt Will's hand on her back. She straightened up, almost flinching away. It was too familiar a touch for here.

"Don't," she ground out, annoyed.

"I'm standin' in my dead partner's room, and you think I'm in the mood for grab ass, huh…"

This time the hurt on his face was clear, but it didn't stop him searching. He pulled something out of the suitcase and turned away.

"What's that?" JJ asked, following him.

She hadn't meant to make any of this worse for him, and she had no idea how to explain her discomfort to him without wounding him further.

"Plastic ID bracelet," he said, handing it over. "112570. I'm guessin' it's for the regatta," he snapped, stripping off his gloves and dropping them in her hands.

"Hey, I'm sorry," she said, but Will was already out the door.

0o0

The car was in an alley, a few blocks away from the dumpsite. No one had called it in yet, and no one had touched it, as far as the CSIs could tell.

"It's all yours, detective."

"Thanks guys," Lopez called, as the four of them ducked under the tape. "This Garcia girl of yours is good!"

All three agents grinned.

"That's an understatement," Spencer remarked.

"She's our resident superhero," Grace told her.

"Hey, you can't go wrong with a Latina at the controls!"

They laughed.

"Yeah, that's my girl," said Morgan. "But – uh – she's not nearly as Latino as she sounds."

He and Lopez got in the car, leaving Spencer outside with Grace, who immediately began to prowl the path to one side of the car. Any excuse not to interact. Spencer watched her sadly for a moment, recalling another crime scene in another alleyway, many months before.

They hadn't exactly been on speaking terms then, either.

He took the other side of the car, looking for anything vaguely out of place in the weeds. He came up empty, coming to a halt a little way in front of the car, where Grace was eyeing up the neighbouring rooftops, in case anyone had private CCTV.

"Nothing," she sighed.

"Me either. I hope they're having better luck with the car."

She 'hmmed' her agreement, her hands stuffed in her pockets.

Spencer waited, in case she was going to say something else, before turning away, concealing a sigh. Conversations with Grace had been strictly limited to cases, of late. Where normally they would be bouncing ideas off one another, or laughing about old episodes of Dr Who, or even just _talking_ , they had fallen into a routine of awkward silences, broken only when their teammates reappeared.

Sadly, he picked at the strap of his watch, which was uncomfortably warm in the Miami heat.

That alleyway in New Orleans had been the first time she'd touched him, too.

An instinctively tactile creature, she used a touch on the arm or a pat on the back almost as punctuation. Spencer hated to be touched – or at least he _had_ hated it; one of the tenets of his life that wasn't strictly true anymore. He'd tolerate it from the team and the few others he trusted; that hadn't changed, but over the last year he had grown accustomed to her inability to stop herself initiating any form of contact, and he missed it like hell when she wasn't around. He'd actually started returning the favour, when she looked like she needed it, and that was something that had never even crossed his mind before.

Now, though, while they remained on more distant terms, he was beginning to crave it, like there was something missing beneath his skin. He twisted the watch strap again, wondering if he was actually beginning to lose it.

"Hey, guys!"

Spencer looked up, startled out of his daydream, to find Morgan beckoning them over to the car.

"The last place Luvet went, according to the Sat Nav, is a gay bar."

0o0

Charlie Luvet's homosexuality (and his struggle to conceal it) entirely changed the victimology. Now they knew what they were looking for, they could target their investigation among the patrons of Miami's gay scene – and maybe catch up with the guy before he found a new target.

Emily shook her head. With people taking weekend or longer breaks every day, South Beach was what you might describe as a target-rich environment. They'd have to move quickly.

No one was more vulnerable than someone looking for love.

Will was taking the revelation pretty hard – not because his friend had been gay, but because he'd thought he had to pretend he wasn't.

Emily sighed, leaning heavily on the corner booth of one of the desks in the Police Department, staring out into the city. The sun was just beginning to set, and in Miami sunsets were utterly glorious.

"For you," said JJ, appearing behind her with a bottle of chilled water.

"Thank you, you read my mind!" Emily told her, as JJ opened her own bottle and joined her sunset vigil.

They settled against the higher desk, leaning on their elbows.

"I don't understand how it can be this dry when it's this humid," JJ complained.

"You sweat all your fluids out outside and then come in to bone dry air conditioning.

"Well, then if I can just hook this up to an IV, then…"

Emily nodded, glancing sidelong at her friend. She and Will were putting on one hell of a show of not dating, but it looked like it was wearing thin on both sides now. Emily grinned to herself. Perhaps some good natured teasing would help her get it off her chest. She cast a look behind them, where the detective was reading through his friend's case file.

"At least we have something fun to look at, keep us on our toes," she remarked.

"What do you mean?"

Emily gave her friend a look of calculated astonishment.

"LaMontagne!"

JJ pretended to look in his direction and assess him. Emily smiled, trying to keep from laughing.

"You think so, huh?" JJ asked, nonchalantly.

"Don't you?" she laughed.

JJ looked at him again.

"Yeah – yeah, I guess he's –" She turned back abruptly as Will noticed her scrutiny. "He has a thing…"

"Yeah, definitely a thing."

Across the room, she heard Hotch approach him. She and JJ made an attempt to look like they were neither talking about him, nor eavesdropping on their conversation.

"Detective, is that the case file?" Hotch asked.

"Yeah," he replied, handing it over. "How'd I not know Charlie was gay?"

He'd asked Hotch by instinct, going to the man who always seemed to have the answers, the way everyone on the team did.

"Because he didn't want you to know," said Hotch.

The truth, delivered gently enough that it might provide some comfort. Will rubbed a frustrated hand across his face.

"He flew hundreds of miles jus' to be someone else," Will remarked, almost chewing the words.

"No, he flew hundreds of miles to be himself," Hotch told him.

Will shook his head.

"What do I tell his fiancée?"

"The truth."

"Alright everybody, listen up," called Lopez, bringing the disparate parts of the room to order. "The FBI has a profile of our guy."

JJ took the lead, switching instantly from awkward discomfort to fully professional.

"Okay, we wanna stress what we're about to present is just a preliminary profile," she announced, to the room at large. "There may be a time restraint here, so we just wanted to give you what we have now." She nodded at the large computer screen, currently at the centre of their display; Garcia was lurking in a video link-up window to one side of it. "Our technical analyst, Penelope Garcia, will start off by talking about the four remaining victims still missing."

Garcia nodded as everyone turned their attention to her.

"Two of them disappeared on the same day a few months ago," she told the assembled police officers. "The third and the fourth went missing in the last four weeks."

"We think the unsub is targeting these guys on their travels," JJ continued.

"Yeah, and when the befriending happens, whoosh! They vanish," said Garcia, which characteristic colour. "However, it looks like there's a connection between the current victims and the men that are still missing. See, two of those four missing men were totally out – openly gay when they disappeared. Uh, I saw one of them on ," she went on, loading it in the adjacent window so the whole room could see. "That's a social networking site. They had a photo – with his boyfriend."

The men in the picture looked happy, in love. Out of the corner of her eye, Emily saw Detective LaMontagne shift uncomfortably. Notifying his partner's fiancée was going to be extremely unpleasant.

"Assuming the four missing men are meeting the same unsub, this means he's killing almost weekly," said Hotch. "Which also means he's already chosen his next victim."

"What we need is more information on the movements of our victims _before_ they met the unsub," Emily explained. "We have three confirmed victims and four possibles. Some of our other colleagues are out in the community now, trying to see if anyone remembers anything about these men."

They'd more or less sent Grace along to keep Morgan and Reid out of trouble. Emily had made her swear to provide photographic evidence if anything embarrassing happened.

"It's not just that these men are travelling alone that left them vulnerable to the unsub," she went on. "We believe they may have specifically been looking to meet other men."

"Based on the age of the victims, we're looking for an offender in his mid-to-late twenties," Hotch described. "He's familiar with the area and may be offering assistance to those who are not."

"He studies his victims' habits," Emily explicated. "Learns how to gain their trust. This unsub is charming, charismatic, intelligent. We assume he frequents gay establishments, but he may also work at one."

"Given the technique with which he kills, he may have had prior defence tactic training," Hotch added. "So he may be a member of the military, or recently discharged."

"He steals their possessions, but he doesn't pawn a thing."

"The fact that he's targeting gay men may mean that this is a hate crime," Hotch inferred, "and – or the unsub may be struggling with his own sexuality."

"We're gonna put together some teams to get out there," said Lopez, turning the conversation to more practical matters.

In the back of the room, Will LaMontagne watched the officers around him with an air of sadness, chewing at the inside of his mouth.

Guessing that he missed his friend, Emily felt for him.


	10. It Takes Two

**Essential listening: So Easily, Kathryn Calder**

0o0

JJ stepped out into the wall of heat that seemed to be a permanent feature of Miami's South Beach. It was nearly midnight, and still achingly hot. The others had gone back to the hotel already, after a fruitless search among the crowds cutting loose in the clubs and bars in their target area. Even Grace, who appeared to have been enjoying the heat so far, had begun to tire of it. She and Emily had left together, making Reid turn a fetching shade of pink with a fairly graphic conversation about ice cold showers.

She stopped at the top of the steps. Leaning on the rail below, Will was having one of the hardest phone calls of his life. JJ watched him for a moment, comforting a woman several hundred miles away whose life was crashing down around her ears, even though he was still hurting.

Her lips curled up into a smile. He was such a good, kind person. No matter how hard things were right now, maybe she could give him a little comfort, too. She owed him that much.

JJ walked down the steps to meet him, intending to ask him to dinner.

"Hey," she said.

He looked up, startled, and then looked away again. JJ frowned. This felt more awkward than she had thought it would.

"Man," he exclaimed, to cover his surprise. "It sure is warm in the Bayou, but at least it cools down some at night." JJ smiled. That was certainly true. "Hah. What, you leavin'?" he asked.

"Yeah," she sighed. "I'm beat."

"Without sayin' goodbye?"

"I didn't know where you were," JJ frowned.

"Did you look?"

He was half-joking, but years of hanging around with profilers told her that also meant he was half-serious. She met his eyes, trying to fathom what he was thinking. Her time at the BAU had taught her more than a few tricks, but right now she had no idea what to expect.

"Should I be worried?" he asked, in earnest now.

JJ sighed.

Will narrowed his eyes. "I mean, it doesn't take a profiler to see that you've got one foot out the door o' this relationship."

 _No!_ JJ thought, but what she was feeling and what actually came out of her head didn't seem to be matching up today. They couldn't have this conversation here – not right in front of the Police Department.

"Could you just – please – keep your voice down?" she begged.

"I don't care if they hear us," Will shrugged, to her dismay. "Hey!" He called, though there was no one nearby to hear him. "I'm crazy 'bout her."

She glared at him and he tilted his head, assessing her.

"You know, I don't have a problem with people knowin' about it."

"Well, I do," she told him, sounding shorter than she'd intended.

"Why?"

"Just because!" she snapped. "Alright? It's _my_ business."

Will shook his head.

"Are you ashamed o' this?" he asked, sounding suddenly far more serious than she'd expected him to.

"No."

"Did I offend you?"

"No."

"I say somethin' wrong?"

" _No._ "

"You – you seein' another guy?"

"No!"

"You _wanna_ see another guy?"

" _No!_ "

"You wanna break up?"

"Y-"

She stopped herself, stunned. That was the last thing she'd expected to come out of her mouth. It pulled Will up short, too. For the first time since she'd met him he looked truly lost, and truly hurt.

"You – you do?"

"Yeah…" She found herself nodding, but it was like someone else was piloting her body.

This was crazy.

Will stared at her, no longer sure what to say.

"Okay," he said at last, and JJ felt compelled to explain herself.

"It's just – a hop on a plane every weekend, forever?" she asked, rhetorically. "And neither one of us is willing to relocate, so…"

"Wh– when did we have _that_ discussion?" Will asked, disbelieving.

"Well, do you?" she demanded, slipping into anger mostly out of fear.

What the hell was she doing?

"Well, maybe," he admitted, with a tight shrug.

JJ stared at him, astonished.

"You wanna give up your career in New Orleans so you can live in Quantico, Virginia?"

"Well, I'd – I'd at least like to have that option!" He looked away. This wasn't the way he'd envisioned this conversation going, either. "You know, all I'm lookin' for here is an acknowledgement to your friends that you care about me."

"Why?" JJ snapped, knowing she was being unreasonable. "Why is that so important to you?"

Will paused, taken aback.

"Why?" He sighed, angrily when no answer was forthcoming. "Have a good night, JJ."

"Will…"

She didn't try to stop him, though every part of her was screaming at her to do just that; she just let him stride away.

0o0

Another morning, another quiet back alley where some poor victim had met their end.

Aaron led his team towards the hive of activity, centred – today – around the back of the local coroner's van. Breakfast had been oddly strained. Everyone had seemed distracted – except Rossi, whose long years of experience helped him stay out of most forms of trouble (these days). Even Prentiss, who had apparently had her worst night's sleep in years because of the heat, was tense.

It didn't take a profiler to know where everyone else's minds were.

Morgan had been texting Detective Lopez under the table all through the meal. Reid had been casting glances at Pearce, pretending that he was reading; it didn't fool Aaron for a moment, the kid hadn't turned a page during the entire meal. Pearce actually _had_ been reading, but Aaron would wager she knew exactly what Reid was doing and was simply ignoring him. Their friendship was still unpleasantly rocky. They would work things out, he expected; hopefully sooner, rather than later.

Though there wasn't actually a rule that said people in the same unit had to be friends, teams (particularly their team, it seemed) worked better if they were. And both of them could be tiringly snappish if they were unhappy. He would rather not have to deal with that again, any time soon – though he had yet to experience Pearce at her worst, he suspected. There were flickers of something darker behind her eyes, from time to time, but they were gone so quickly he couldn't be sure it wasn't just his imagination. Sometimes he wondered if her usual equanimity wasn't just a show she put on for the rest of the BAU.

 _Look at me: I'm totally normal. Can't see ghosts; not strange at all. Nothing to see here, folks, move it along_ …

JJ, too, had been unusually quiet. He had seen her the evening before, quiet and sad, and trying to keep her tears to herself. He recognised the pain of a break-up when he saw one. He'd been as supportive as he could without either of them actually mentioning it, but beyond that there was little he could do. He hated not being able to help a friend.

He shook his head. Half his team were hurting right now.

Well, Morgan wasn't, but that was another matter.

They'd all straightened their backs and put their game faces on when the call had come in, though. It was days like this he felt extremely proud to be a part of a team of people who could – and would – push their problems aside to catch a killer.

"What've we got?" he asked, catching Detective Lopez's eye.

"Male, same age range – and we found Luvet's police badge about a half a block from here," she told them, handing the badge to Aaron.

"So the unsub either ditched it or dropped it when he was gettin' away," Morgan inferred. "Any sign of Luvet's gun?"

"No, he may be holdin' onto that."

"Why would he kill out in the open like this?" Reid asked, looking around.

As kill-sites went, this one was pretty busy.

"He's losing control emotionally," Aaron suggested. "He could be devolving."

Pearce made a noise of slight disagreement.

"I don't know, maybe this is just where the urge to kill overcame him," she proposed. "I mean, look around – this is exactly the kind of place you might find a couple of people fooling around outside a bar."

"You think the victim came onto him?" Morgan queried.

"Maybe – or maybe he was into it too, until it came to the act itself."

"And that was a step too far for him…" Rossi mused. "We've seen that before."

"Leaving the body out in plain sight," said Prentiss, thoughtfully. "That's off-pattern."

"He was interrupted," said Detective Lopez.

"Who interrupted him?" Rossi asked.

The busboy from the nearest bar hadn't seen enough to be particularly useful in terms of identification, but the way the unsub had reacted to the interruption was suggestive, at least. Aaron watched JJ lead the young man away to get his information.

Interesting.

"So, this guy's impersonating Luvet?" the detective asked, puzzled.

"It could just be a ruse he used to get away," Morgan allowed.

"If he is impersonating his victims, why?" Prentiss wondered aloud.

"Transference," said Reid, at once.

Aaron nodded, feeling that they were beginning to find the right track with this guy.

"Whatever he sees in his victims he wants for himself," he expanded. "He hates who he is. He's targeting tourists because he sees them as living a kind of lie, too."

"He could be suffering from Cluster B," Prentiss suggested, after a moment.

Eyebrows raised all around the circle. That would explain a lot.

"Cluster B?" Lopez asked.

"A cluster of personality disorders," Reid explained. "It's also called the 'erratic-traumatic emotional cluster'. An enduring pattern of inner experience and behaviour that differentiates itself remarkably from the expectations of the individual's culture. It manifests itself –"

"This guy's one sick dude," Morgan interrupted, feeling that Lopez's eyes had begun to glaze over.

Reid broke off, looking chastened.

"In this instance he's looking for a proxy to become in order to escape from what he hates in himself," Pearce picked up, perhaps feeling that some more explanation was, in fact, justified. Aaron watched Reid's eyes flick hopefully in her direction as she continued: "When he kills someone, he takes on their persona until he finds and his new victim. Ultimately, though, the persona has to die alongside the new victim."

"Something triggers his constant need to escape," said Prentiss. "It could be drugs, sex – something that makes him feel vulnerable."

"And he can't allow himself the vulnerability," Aaron added.

"Escape into the fantasy protects him from ever having to look at himself," Rossi continued.

"Well, if this is about him struggling with his sexuality then the personas share the same major characteristic as him – he views it as a flaw." Pearce shrugged. "He can't help but take on a persona that's gay, because that's who he is, but that persona has to be destroyed in the end, because that's the thing he hates about himself the most."

"That is messed up," Lopez remarked.

"Like I said," Morgan chipped in. "One sick dude." He frowned. "You know, if the unsub lives in their skin, odds are he's livin' in their hotel rooms."

0o0

Deacon Rogers, they quickly found out, when Garcia received the prints, was a native of Odessa Texas and had a hotel room in South Beach. A hotel room whose door was ajar when they arrived.

Detective Lopez and Morgan took point, while Emily and Spencer brought up the rear. A quick sweep of the suite told them their unsub was long gone. The rooms were a _mess_. Deacon's clothes were strewn all over the place, everything that could be moved had been.

Emily expelled the air from her cheeks, surveying the disarray. "Well, he tore through this place in a hurry," she exclaimed.

"What was he looking for?" asked Reid.

"Identity," said Emily. "Anything to possess a new one."

"He thinks there's a witness out there who can ID him," Morgan put in.

 _Which means he needs a new persona, and fast._

"It's not about fulfillin' his need anymore," Morgan continued. "It's about survival."

0o0

The interviews with the families of the two men who had gone missing on one day could not have been more different, Grace reflected. The first man (from out of state) wasn't openly out, but his folks knew he was gay and were totally fine with it – he had come to South Beach to kick back and relax before heading back to college; the second – well, that was a different kettle of fish.

His father had been abusive far beyond the point of criminality, and he had beaten into his son a hatred of his own sexuality. The sister, on the other hand, genuinely wanted to help her brother. Grace got the impression that while her father had never physically hurt her, she lived in fear of him, all the same.

The guilt of not telling anyone about what he was doing to Stephen must have been overwhelming.

The new scene was a sort of back-road car park – one of those spare pieces of ground overlooking the city that end up as sort of unofficial meeting places and out-of-hours, unticketed parking.

The late Deacon Rogers had owned a _nice_ car: a black, top-down sports model that must have been his pride and joy. Even Grace, who very much preferred a motorbike for most situations, could appreciate it.

The corpse of another young man was slumped in the passenger seat.

"He's speeding up," she remarked, and nodded to Detective Lopez.

"Texas plates," Rossi observed.

"Deacon Rogers never rented a car," said Lopez. "He drove here from Texas in this. Put it out as a BOLO."

"Agent Hotchner's taking statements from the family of Stephen Fitzgerald," Reid told her. "He might be our unsub."

"Seriously?" she asked, stunned.

"It's an unusual household," Emily said, with a grimace.

"We've had his picture this whole time?"

"Apparently." Reid bit his lip.

"We didn't know soon enough to prevent this," Rossi groused, voicing the coppers' guilt they were all harbouring. "One set of tyre tracks in, nothing out."

"Yeah, I noticed," said Lopez. "County spotted the vehicle twenty minutes ago, just as-is."

"Asphyxiated?" Emily asked.

"No obvious marks," said Grace, peering at the underside of the victim's neck, careful not to disturb anything. "Looks like a chokehold, same as before."

Lopez sighed, clearly frustrated. "Why mess with a good thing, it's clearly workin' for him."

"This stretch of road takes you right out of the city," Emily pointed out, looking off along it.

"He's thinking about skipping town," Grace agreed, following her train of thought.

"If we lose Stephen now it could take us months to catch up with him again!" Emily warned.

"May I?" Morgan asked, nodding towards the body, which hadn't yet been processed.

They didn't have the time to waste this time, and Lopez seemed to be painfully aware of that. "Knock yourself out."

The agent leaned into the car and reached into the dead man's pockets, pulling out papers and a scrunched up napkin.

"What is it?" Rossi asked.

"I dunno – some kind of scraps of paper," said Morgan, opening them out. "Looks like some kind of food wrapper…" He frowned at the paper. "Huh. It's a receipt for a youth hostel. It's dated last night. The name on it is – uh – Michael Aldridge."

Rossi narrowed his eyes. "From the looks of his sunburn, it's a good guess this young man was hitch-hiking."

"Assuming Stephen has taken over Michael's identity, he might have hitched a ride out of here," Reid speculated.

"He didn't drive?" Rossi asked.

"Not if Michael didn't," Reid clarified. "He's not becoming his victims by choice, it's his illness. He'd have to travel the exact same way."

"Which means he's probably still in the city," Grace realised.

"Hostels," said Rossi.

"There's a few hostels in North Miami Beach," Lopez told them. "Four miles that way." She pointed along the road. "And in Seneca, five miles west."

"Okay, we'll have to split up," said Rossi. "You take Seneca," he said, indicating Lopez, Morgan and Grace. "We'll take North Miami Beach."

0o0

"You know, I could never work out why all the hostels always wind up on the same street," Grace complained, as they piled out of the Yuke.

"You take that one," Morgan suggested, nodding to a brightly painted door across the street. "We'll take the one further down."

Grace suppressed a smile. Even in the midst of a case, Morgan and Lopez were instinctively drawing closer to one another. She didn't even think they knew they were doing it. Heading up the front steps, she wondered what they'd do about it, once the case was over.

Morgan wasn't the kind of guy to let an opportunity slip by him, and Lopez seemed pretty relaxed about flirting with him, too. They'd be good together, at least for a while.

The man on the front desk looked her over, winced and then extracted himself from his chair, clearly expecting some form of drugs raid on his guests. Fortunately for him, he'd never heard of a Michael Aldridge, so Grace left him to his doodling and headed back out onto the street. The absence of any officers worried her. She was in the process of pulling out her phone when it rang.

"Pearce. He's here, we're goin' in," said Morgan, without preamble. "Call the others. We're gonna send people out, keep 'em back…"

"You couldn't wait?" she demanded, but he'd already hung up.

Rolling her eyes, she speed dialled Hotch and then Rossi, telling them to break the traffic laws on their way.

"Alright people, I need you to go across the street and stay on the opposite pavement!" she shouted, as scared, half-clothed hostel denizens began to spill out of the front door. "Hey, are you the manager?"

A slim, frightened woman with short hair turned around and nodded.

"Okay, I need you to keep your guests over there as best you can. Stay calm – if you're calm, they'll be calm."

The look of terror the woman sent her way was quite eloquent.

"Don't worry, ma'am. I'm sure my colleagues have everything under control. Just keep everyone out of the way – this street is about to get extremely busy.

0o0

Grace watched Morgan and Lopez flirt, their suspect safely stowed in the back of a patrol car, hands cuffed behind his back. The two officers had already driven off. With a man as unstable as Stephen Fitzgerald, it was important to get him to the psychiatric hospital, under the supervision of people who could handle violent outbursts and dramatic shifts in persona. There would be a twenty-four hour police presence at the hospital for the next few weeks, just in case.

She'd checked Stephen's backpack, found Detective Luvet's gun inside and handed it to Detective Lopez, who had shaken her head, amazed. She'd told her how Morgan had talked him down, putting himself in the firing line without a gun.

 _A calculated risk._

Grace chewed the inside of her mouth. That was the kind of risk she would have expected him to take, but going into an unsecured building full of kids with an armed and unstable unsub? That didn't feel like a Derek Morgan kind of move at all, though it might conceivably be something a frustrated detective might pull, if she felt all those kids were in danger…

She looked up as the rest of the team arrived.

"Morgan!" Hotch called, looking both stern and surprised. "You couldn't wait?"

She saw him glance in Lopez's direction; Morgan shook his head.

"This one's on me, Hotch," he said, firmly shouldering the blame. "I didn't think we had time."

Hotch's expression was the picture of incredulity, but he didn't say anything. The rest of the team looked similarly disbelieving, too, as they began to move towards the cars; Emily even glared at him.

"On you, is it?" Grace asked, sliding past.

She flashed him a grin he couldn't help but return. Really, people did the silliest things sometimes, and as much as she trusted him, a stunt like that could have ended badly for everyone.

For a moment, she met Reid's eyes across the roof of the Yuke.

People did the silliest things.

0o0

Grace was loitering around the fridge with Emily when JJ came in, and made sure she was (if not quite out of sight) at least partially obscured by the filing cabinet. Emily took a seat at the table, where she couldn't be seen, both of them trying not to listen in.

Will was leaning against a desk by the murder board, emotional and utterly exhausted. He ran tired hands over his face when JJ approached, carrying Luvet's personal effects.

"Detective Lopez signed this into your custody," she told him.

"Thank you," he sighed. "I still can't believe it."

"That Charlie was gay?"

"No. That he thought he couldn' tell me. That he thought he had ta hide it." He shook his head. "I mean, I can't think of anythin' I'd care less about than him bein' gay, you know?"

He looked up and gave JJ a sad smile.

"Well, he was my friend and I loved 'im. And all I ever woulda wanted was for him to be happy, you know?"

They looked at one another for a long moment. From their hiding places, Grace and Emily shared an exasperated glance, shaking their heads.

"Well," said Will, picking up his bag. "Take care o' yourself, JJ."

Grace bit her lip, quietly stirring some ice tea someone had thoughtfully decided she should try. While she could completely understand JJ's reluctance to share her love life with the rest of the team, it worried her a little that her friend might be about to throw away something precious.

She winced in Emily's general direction, and the other agent went to knock some sense into their friend. Grace's love life back in London had regularly been such a mess that she didn't feel she ought to comment on anyone else's.

"You should go for him," Emily encouraged, while JJ pretended to be unaffected by her soon-to-be-ex lover walking out the door.

"What?"

"You'd make a cute couple," she observed, nonchalantly.

There was a pause – hardly even the length of a couple of heartbeats, then: "You know what?" JJ said, faintly, and then ran out of the door.

Grace joined Emily by the front window, where they saw their friend catch up with Will and try to make amends.

"It's not that I don't want them to know, alright?" she began, breathlessly. "I don't care about that. It's not about the relocating, or travelling on the weekends, or some guy…"

Will had already begun to smile slightly, pleased that she was trying to apologise and explain.

"It's… I didn't wanna tell anyone because… the minute I – I do it becomes real, and when it becomes real, people get hurt. And I've always, always run from getting hurt. And I don't wanna run anymore – at least, not from you, and –"

"JJ, shut up."

Grace laughed, satisfied, as Will pulled her into her arms and kissed her.

"Well, finally!" Morgan remarked, coming up behind the two women, Reid in tow.

"Tch-yeah," Emily snorted. "I thought she was never gonna admit it."

"Yeah, what's it been, like, a year?" Reid scoffed, as they all began to move away.

"Yeah, somethin' like that," said Morgan.

"Your life's not your own around here," Grace observed.

"Hazard of the BAU," Morgan told her.

"Oh yeah? And when are you going to call Lopez, then?"

"Get in the car, Pearce," he said, gently pushing her out of the back door. "Or I'll put itchin' powder in your panties."

"Promises, promises!"

0o0

 _If we knew each other's secrets, what comforts we should find._

 _John Churton Collins_

0o0

Grace put down her knitting and stretched her back, intending to make a cup of tea.

With the resolution of the last case, the team had quickly evaporated into the Virginia night, fully intending to make the most of a hopefully crime-free weekend – an uncommon luxury at the BAU. JJ had escaped with not a little teasing about her now openly obvious relationship with Will, but had taken it with reasonable grace. It was a good thing, Grace thought, to know one's mind and pursue something so positive to the full.

She was almost in the kitchen when someone knocked on her front door. A glance at the clock told her that it wasn't unreasonably late, so she padded over to the peephole. Grace sighed.

An anxious looking Spencer Reid was loitering on her garden path, peering up at the second storey windows (which were dark). Briefly, she debated ignoring him and just getting on with her evening, but she decided against it. He was peculiarly stubborn, just as she was, and she suspected he might sit out there all night. He'd probably just construct some kind of elaborate Rube-Goldberg machine to make her come outside, anyway.

Conceding that perhaps she was being a little unfair about the silliness in West Bune, she opened the door. One look at his hopeful, worried face brought back all her anger, however. He had come so close to getting himself (and everyone else) murdered. The thought of him being gunned down on that street in front of them was still a little too much for her.

She folded her arms, feeling cross and unfriendly. Spencer winced.

"Uh – hi…"

Grace raised an eyebrow.

"I – uh – I came to… I wanted to tell you that I know what I did in Texas was really dumb," he apologised. "It was irresponsible and stupid. I am really, really sorry, Grace."

Her frown deepened, still angry. It wasn't enough to know that he knew he was an idiot if there remained the possibility of him ever doing it again. And why apologise to her? He'd put the whole team at risk! She pursed her lips. Reading her (probably fairly eloquent) micro-expressions, he frowned.

"And all that stuff I said to you – I didn't mean any of it. There's no way you would – you would never do that to any of us. I trust you."

He gave her a sad little smile.

"I acted like a total ass."

She felt her mouth twitch involuntarily into an answering smile and immediately suppressed it, biting hard on the inside of her mouth.

"No argument," she said, tightly.

Spencer chuckled, pleased to be making a little headway.

"Um, I – uh – I brought a peace offering," he told her, holding up a grocery bag. "Pizza…"

"That's a bit presumptive," she remarked, surprised.

"Not really," he offered. "I figured if you wouldn't let me in I could heat it up at home."

The smile threatened again; this time he definitely saw it.

"And I bought beer…"

"You hate beer," she pointed out.

"You don't."

It really didn't help that he looked so adorable, standing earnestly among the roses in the late evening sunlight. With a shrug, she relented.

"Fine," she said, stepping back to let him in. "I was going to watch _St Trinian's_ , if you're interested."

"That sounds amazing," he smiled, relieved, and was so genuinely pleased that it charmed her a little.

She put the pizza in the oven while Spencer located her bottle opener and together they went into her living room. Grace stopped him on the threshold, a firm hand pressed on the centre of his chest.

He blinked owlishly down at it, then back up at her.

"You step in front of my gun again and there's an unsub behind you, I will shoot you," she told him, bluntly.

"I th-think that would pr-obably be fair," he admitted, stumbling a little over the words, and she permitted him a small smile.

"Just as long as we're clear…"

He touched his chest, hesitantly, where she had stopped him, and flopped on the sofa beside her, where she struggled with the feeling that the house felt much more like home now her friend was in it again.

0o0

 _Note: Thanks go to Karelin Lestrange, Mina Lofthouse and Appolline Tabourot for pointing me towards the Rube-Goldberg machine idea. I can totally see them setting it off anyway as a proof of concept!_


	11. Keri's Curse

**Essential listening: Every Little Thing She Does is Magic, by The Police**

 **0o0**

JJ had pulled Emily and Grace in early, which was unusual to begin with. Generally a case would be passed to her, then she would pitch it to the team as a whole. This one, however, needed a slightly different approach. Not for nothing had she grabbed her fellow female agents as they left the coffee-shop on their way in.

Grace tapped her fingers against her leg impatiently, waiting for Emily to finish the woman's letter.

"You done?" JJ asked, leaning forward in her chair.

"Almost."

"It's pretty powerful, right?"

"Whoof," Emily exclaimed. "I can see why you'd meet with her."

"This guy seems pretty serious," Grace mused, and then sat up as Agent Anderson appeared in the doorway to JJ's office.

He knocked on the open door. "Your ten thirty's here," he said, and then kind of froze as the woman he was escorting pushed inside the room.

"Okay, just give me one minute…" JJ began, but the newcomer interrupted her.

"Hi, um – I'm Keri Derzmond," she announced, shaking hands with JJ.

Behind her, probably aware that his presence would be an intrusion, Anderson fled.

"Hi. Agent Jareau. This is…"

"Emily Prentiss."

"Grace Pearce."

They all shook hands, serious and tense. It seemed to Grace that the woman in front of them was living on a knife-edge – and from the tone of her letter, she could well imagine why. There was fear there, and exhaustion, and something else: something new, Grace thought, maybe dangerous. Hope.

"I'm sorry to rush in," Keri apologised. "But when I got the message you would see me this morning… I could barely sleep last night, but that's nothing new. I haven't been able to sleep for about two years."

"We read the letter you wrote to the Silver Spring Police."

Keri nodded. She had known how the letter would sound when she sent it.

"Begging and pleading wasn't getting their attention," she told them. "They needed to know that I wasn't going away."

 _And you won't be leaving us alone, either_ , Grace thought. _Good._

"So, you've been getting these notes for the past two years?" JJ confirmed.

Keri nodded again.

"I used to be in Atlanta. I moved here six months ago, and then – out of nowhere – another note." She paused, frustrated. "I can't live like this anymore. I want my life back."

Grace frowned: for a stalker to follow someone that far was unusual.

"What did the police tell you?" Emily asked.

"The detective I met with was… very sympathetic," she explained. "But his hands are tied unless something happens to me. And by then, it will be too late. Will _you_ help me?"

Grace gritted her teeth. Her fellow agents looked similarly uncomfortable. As stupid as it was, technically their hands were tied, too. The job wasn't so much about prevention as capture, which was never a pleasant thing to consider. Grace shifted her weight slightly. Chances were (and quite rightly) Keri Derzmond wouldn't take that particularly well.

There was a bit of a pause as they tried to think of a way to explain operational procedure without making her feel like she was being put off.

"I'm presenting the case to our team this morning," JJ told her. "I'll let you know what we decide."

Angrily, Keri reached for JJ's notepad and started writing.

"Lou Evans, Ed Derzmond, Ryan Scott," she listed.

"Excuse me?" JJ asked, taking the sheet of paper from her.

"Those are the people you'll be calling when you find me dead."

With that, she turned on her heel. The three women watched her go, distressed.

"You know what," said Grace. "Screw protocol. If the team doesn't take this, I'm going to take a few day's leave and head over to Maryland."

Emily nodded, mutely; they both glanced at JJ, whose eyes were still firmly fixed to the door Keri Derzmond had stalked out of.

The team would be taking this.

0o0

Morgan and Reid were waiting for them (reasonably patiently) in the briefing room. 'Reasonably', because Morgan was already reading a different file and Spencer was doodling impossible maths equations on a notepad. They both looked up when the three women came in.

"Where's Mom and Dad?" Morgan asked.

"Which one's 'Mom'?" Grace asked, quirking an eyebrow as they took their seats.

"Rossi," Morgan told her instantly, as if this was obvious.

She ducked her head, hiding a smirk.

"Hotch and Rossi are still at the seminar in Boston," JJ told them. "We shouldn't wait on this."

"JJ pulled us in early," said Emily. "I agree."

Grace nodded, as the men's gaze turned to her. "Yeah, there's a bit of a limited time frame on this."

"This is Keri Derzmond," said JJ, pressing a button on the remote that controlled the big screen. "Two years ago in Atlanta, she started receiving notes that meticulously described her whereabouts throughout the day. The local authorities never found out who was responsible."

"Recently, she moved to Maryland," said Grace, on JJ's nod. "Things seemed quiet for a while, until she got another note. She brought the stalker with her."

"They think it's the same person?" Morgan asked.

All three women nodded.

"He includes photographs of himself," said Emily.

JJ pulled them up on the screen: a leg, an arm, a neck, a torso. Never any of his face. It was extremely sinister, even given what they were used to dealing with.

"None of his face, that's very telling," Spencer mused. "He's either trying to protect his identity or he has self-image issues. He's controlling the parts of his body that he shows to her."

"Sometimes he augments the letters and photos with flowers, as if they're celebrating an anniversary," Grace added.

"The moment he became fixated on her…" Spencer chewed the inside of his mouth. "Are the gifts of flowers regular?"

"It's hard to say," said Grace, who had been trying to work it out. "Some dates there's always flowers, but sometimes another date pops up. Like he's getting them 'just because'."

"He believes he's in a relationship with Keri," Morgan realised.

"He writes to Keri in these letters about their future together," Emily told them. "Having kids, growing old. He believes Keri is in love with him and – just doesn't know it yet."

"Okay, so the guy's clearly delusional, but what makes this a BAU case?" Morgan queried.

He had a point. The BAU was a big resource to send after a small-time stalker, no matter how likely it was he might hurt Keri.

"He is so obsessed that he tracked her over six hundred miles away," Emily explained.

"That _is_ unusual," said Spencer, with a frown. "Typically a stalker will change his focus to another woman if the object of his affection moves away."

"I mean, I get that," said Morgan. "I mean, he's way past a first-level escalation, but… still."

"When Keri received the first letter in Maryland, she went to the locals for protection. They told her they couldn't help her," said Emily. "This woman is in serious danger."

Morgan nodded, slowly, and then looked at Grace.

"If we can't help someone _before_ they get hurt, then what use are we?" she asked.

The older agent shifted his gaze to JJ, doing his surrogate leader routine.

"This case is in my hands now," said JJ. "If we do nothing and something happens to her… I'll be the one notifying her family."

She had the notepaper with Keri's next of kin in her hands. It weighed heavy, that kind of responsibility. Morgan looked at Spencer, who raised his eyebrows and gave a little shrug. It was a mark of how much the team trusted each other that they were willing to go down this route at all.

"Okay."

0o0

 _No man is happy without a delusion of some kind. Delusions are as necessary to our happiness as realities._

 _Christian Nestell Bovee_

0o0

They had split up. JJ and Emily had gone to speak with Keri at her office while Spencer, Morgan and Pearce went to meet Detective Steve Berry at the Police Department. Grace had called shotgun and practically raced Morgan to the car, so Spencer read and re-read the file in the back of the Yuke, contemplating obsession and attraction, and the difference between the two, while his colleagues spit-balled ideas up front.

They were currently arguing about the difference between erotomania and obsessive love, which was still a bit of a contentious subject, even in the clinical side of psychology.

Berry met them at the door, clearly eager to get them settled and get to work, if he could. There was the usual hint of reluctance about him that you would expect from a law enforcement officer who feels that either his territory or his professional ability has been compromised. Here, Spencer suspected that it was a little of both: their presence suggested that they felt his lack of action was unprofessional (though it wasn't, his hands were well and truly tied), and there were suddenly three officious agents on his turf, bossing him around.

He seemed affable enough, though, and not much older than Spencer or Grace. He shepherded them through the office, just three more official visitors in the day-to-day milieu of the department.

"So, we can use this area until something bigger comes along," he said, gesturing at a small, not particularly enclosed part of the office.

The best he could do at short notice, Spencer supposed. The Silver Spring Police Department was pretty small, compared to some they'd encountered. He wasn't sure whether Berry meant a bigger office space or a bigger case. It was hard to tell at this juncture.

"I set it up just like Agent Jareau requested. Is she coming, by the way?"

"Uh, she and another agent are at Keri Derzmond's office," Spencer explained.

"We thought it best to get things rolling as quickly as possible," Grace told him, with a smile. "Divide and conquer, you know."

"Aren't you guys a little over-qualified for this case?" Berry asked. "I mean, this guy's no serial killer."

"We construct behavioural profiles for a variety of investigative scenarios," Spencer told him. "That includes stalking."

"We've seen this kind of thing before," Morgan added. "And it can get ugly real fast."

"Essentially, what we're looking at is someone who isn't a serial killer _yet_ ," said Grace. "Because you had the foresight to forward Keri's letter onto us, we can get in ahead of the game – before he hurts her."

Berry nodded, impressed, and Spencer sent Grace a smile, glad that she was good at putting people at their ease. When she wanted to be, at least.

"Hey, I wanted to help this girl the day she came in," he told them, keen to show them he hadn't just given her the brush-off. "I just – I didn't have the man-power."

"Listen, we understand what it's like to be short-handed," said Morgan, reassuringly. "We're just here to help."

"Look, don't get me wrong, I got a sister Keri's age, and if some guy was doin' this to her and I got my hands on him?" He sighed. "I'd probably get thrown off the force."

Spencer nodded, raising an eyebrow.

"You and me both," Morgan agreed.

"Aww, look at you all," Grace teased them. "Big brothers a girl would kill for."

Morgan grinned. "Itchin' powder, Pearce. Itchin' powder."

"In-joke," she told Berry, on his look of utter confusion.

"Huh," he said, his eyes travelling down her body. "Cause I was thinking, itching powder wouldn't be the first thing on my mind when it came to you."

Spencer looked up, sharply, to find both Grace and Detective Berry blushing, and Morgan trying very hard not to laugh.

"How about I get you all some coffee?" Berry offered, to cover his embarrassment.

"Thanks."

"Mm-hmm."

"Er – tea for me, if you have it," Grace said, cheerily.

"He was a little forward," Spencer observed, frowning at the detective's retreating back.

"I think Pearce can handle him."

She rolled her eyes at the smirk on Morgan's face and picked up a case file. "He was just being friendly, honestly boys."

Spencer wasn't so sure. Grace's body language hadn't changed, but Berry's had. As soon as he had spoken he had shifted slightly towards a more welcoming, flirtatious pose. It made Spencer distinctly uncomfortable.

"I don't like him," he said, aloud, surprising all three of them.

"He's just trying to do his job," Grace told him.

"Yeah man, it's not like he can just ignore the rules. We're on the edge here, as it is." Morgan patted him on the shoulder. "Come on guys, eyes down now."

"Yes _boss_ ," Grace mocked, in a passable American accent, before taking a seat at the small table.

Frowning at his own inattention to the case, Spencer sat beside her, feeling curiously averse to being further away. He told himself he was being stupid. There was nothing wrong in a little harmless flirting – hell, she flirted lightly with Morgan all the time, though never anything that could be considered too inappropriate. It was just a way to pass the time between corpses.

And it hadn't been Detective Berry she'd spent the previous Saturday night watching movies with, nor who had woken up on her couch on Sunday morning, her head on his chest, one arm wrapped tightly around her in his sleep…

But he couldn't ignore the pert little smile that still played about her lips, or the way it broadened slightly when Berry handed her a cup of tea.

Stamping as hard as he could on the sudden, urgent wish that _he_ could make her smile that way, he pulled out a file.

"Okay, when Keri lived in Atlanta, the initial communication happened at her job," said Morgan, who did seem to have his mind on the case. "But then, they got more personal and started goin' to her home."

"The first card is likely an anniversary date, of sorts," Spencer guessed, taking a dry wipe marker and starting on the thing he was definitely not currently classifying as the 'pre-murder board', glad to have a reason to face away from the others. "The first time he saw her, or the first face-to-face meeting."

He frowned up at the word 'meeting', trying to dispel the memory (unusually vivid) of an unknown voice stealing his thunder in a dark room in New Orleans, and a travel-weary, defiant Brit assessing him with a quick look before approaching Hotch. She had been wearing a suit, despite the heat, probably determined to look professional at least for the first five minutes of her new job – and _that_ blouse.

He remembered that blouse. She had worn it several times since and the sight of it never failed to turn his ears pink. Cream cotton and soft to the touch. The slightest scent of strawberry from the stuff she put in her hair…

Spencer shook himself, blushing slightly at the other memories he had of that time.

Detective Berry, who was leaning heavily on the table, poring over the files, spoke, breaking his train of thought:

"He actually wrote the date on the card. March twenty-first, 2006."

"That was a Tuesday," Spencer recalled.

"And I can't even remember what I did last week," Grace remarked. "What phase of the moon was that?"

He could tell she was joking, but he couldn't resist. He never could. "First day of the last quarter," he said, with a quick glance in her direction.

Behind his back, she shared a smile with Morgan.

"I'll look back through the notes and see if the flowers happen more on twenty-firsts than anything else," she suggested, and started flicking through the file. "And look out for last-quarter moons."

She stuck her tongue out at him when he tried to glare at her, so he gave up.

"Okay, we should also look at Tuesdays and March, 2005," Morgan added. "If we can figure out what this date means to the stalker, we could trace his connection back to Keri."

0o0

Keri was definitely happy to see them, Emily thought.

JJ's admission that part of her insistence at taking this case had been because of another woman she couldn't save had hit home. Usually, JJ was the rock at the centre of the team's world; she seemed unusually emotional on this one. Emily didn't entirely blame her, but there was definitely something else going on with her friend.

She hoped it wasn't anything serious.

"Why the move to Maryland?" she asked.

"Ryan lives here," Keri explained. "And my firm just opened an office. The move wasn't because of the stalker – although, the police back in Atlanta thought it was a good idea."

She sighed, looking suddenly exhausted.

"I'm always cautious, but for the first time I felt that if I looked over my shoulder no one would be there."

Emily nodded; she could certainly empathise with that feeling. Keri seemed to have her head screwed on right – a sensible woman in a ridiculous situation.

"We need you to make a list of names," she said. "Of everyone you know, even acquaintances – both here and in Georgia."

"Okay."

"Don't forget ex-boyfriends, or any indiscretions," JJ added, as gently as she could.

"Nothing is insignificant."

Keri made a start, flinching as she wrote the names of people she ought to be able to trust.

"If I knew what I was doing to make this guy so obsessed, I'd stop!" she exclaimed, frustration getting the better of her.

"When your paths crossed, something clicked with him," JJ assured her. "If you were smiling, he probably thought you were smiling at him."

 _This is not your fault._

"We have no way of knowing what his fantasy is," Emily told her. "What we do know is you're the star of it."

0o0

"Okay, so every Tuesday, Keri's firm has a staff meeting," said Morgan. "And it's catered by a lot of different restaurants."

"I'll add it to the list," said Berry, leaning over Grace's shoulder.

He was far too close to her, in Spencer's opinion, but she didn't seem to mind so he kept his mouth shut. Instead, he glared at the photograph's the stalker had sent Keri.

"What do you see?" Morgan asked him.

"Look at the new photograph Keri received in Maryland," he said, putting it on the desk in front of Morgan. "Now look at the old ones from Atlanta. The muscle tone's changed," he observed, pointing it out. "The bicep is more defined."

"Also skin-colour," Morgan added, casting his eyes over the earlier shots. "He's tanned."

"Why do we care if he's lifting weights and out in the sun?" Detective Berry asked.

Spencer had a hard time not rolling his eyes.

"Because he's on the pull," Grace explained, using a British colloquialism that felt oddly jarring, given the setting.

Berry shot her a grin.

"We're looking at this from a behavioural standpoint," Spencer explained, trying to catch the detective's attention and keep it firmly away from his friend. "He's making improvements to his appearance, and it's likely to impress Keri."

"What does her fiancé look like?" Morgan asked.

"Tall, tanned, like he works out – athletic," said Berry, understanding. "Ryan's a good guy. This guy has him rattled, but it's pretty obvious he cares for Keri."

"Good," said Grace. "Everyone should have a partner who can cope with a stalker and still make them feel like everything's going to be okay."

She smiled up at Detective Berry, who returned the favour.

0o0

"Well, here it is," said Ryan, pointing at a box on the coffee table. "I appreciate you driving Keri home. Ever since this guy showed up again I've been takin' her everywhere."

He was a handsome, solid kind of guy, which was probably why Keri liked him, Emily decided. He seemed smart enough to recognise a threat when he saw one, too, and seemed to be backing Keri up on this one hundred percent. That was a good thing. It was always worse for a stalking victim if loved ones wouldn't take them seriously.

"Would he send something that could hurt me?" Keri asked, spooked by how the two agents were gingerly opening the box.

"Probably not," said Emily, honestly. "But we don't wanna take any chances."

"You really think this guy would do somethin' like that, after all this time?" Ryan queried, worried.

"At this point you haven't done anything to provoke him." Emily allowed, opening the box.

There was a smaller, plastic box inside, containing jewellery.

"It's just a pair of earrings," she said, showing it to them.

"They look like antiques," said Keri, shocked.

"Says they were his grandmother's," JJ explained, still reading the accompanying letter. "Family heirloom."

"He wants to make you a part of his family," Emily observed, darkly.

"Well, we have the back of his head now," said JJ.

Emily glanced at the photo, impressed that anyone on their own (as this guy undoubtedly was) could make a shot like that turn out so well.

"He hopes that – uh – you give him a gift soon, too," JJ continued, frowning.

 _Uh-oh. His confidence was building – and now he wanted something from Keri. Something she wouldn't want to give. Something that might make him violent._

"What does that mean?" Keri asked.

"We should probably get this back to the station and start a trace," said Emily, briskly.

Keri was already frightened enough – there was no use making it worse.

"You can find him that way?" Ryan asked, surprised.

"Uh – first class mail's harder to track, but we'll see," said Emily, trying to keep her voice light and reassuring.

"Officers will be driving by your house periodically, looking for anything suspicious," JJ told them. "And you have my number if anything happens."

They nodded, mutely.

"We'll call and let you know if we find anything."

0o0

The night had been fruitful for the stalker, and less so for the team. Although they had got more sleep than they usually did on an active case, the knowledge that he'd taken her dog right out of her front yard, while both she and Ryan had been awake and in the room overlooking it had left a sour taste in everyone's mouths.

"This guy's definitely tryin' to mirror Ryan," Morgan observed, darkly, pinning up Ryan's picture next to Keri's. "He's even got the same haircut."

He was as much a part of their unsub's fantasy now as she was – albeit as an expendable model, rather than an object of admiration.

"He's trying to replicate what Keri's attracted to," said Spencer, with a frown.

"What he had clearly wasn't working," Grace remarked. "I guess he figured he could find another way in."

The three of them stared up at various shots of their stalker, disheartened. Morgan sighed.

"He starts feelin' good about himself, he's gonna find the courage he needs to actually meet her," Morgan reflected, gloomily.

"We charging him with dog-napping now, too?" asked Detective Berry, pinning a shot of the unfortunate Golden Retriever to the stalker-board. He sounded a little disgruntled, like he wasn't sure why they were worried.

"It's pretty indicative of his frame of mind," said Grace.

"Takin' the dog may not seem like much to you," Morgan told him. "But it tells us that he's desperately tryin' to feel close to her. He was bold enough to break into her backyard. Add that to his proven determination and we've got ourselves a serious escalation here."

"I thought he was just messin' with her," said Berry, looking mildly horrified at his own underestimation.

"We could get Keri to put fliers up," Spencer suggested. "It may get him to call to return the dog."

"Would he do that?"

"If he wants to prove how much he cares," Spencer told him.

"And if it's the kind of thing Ryan would do – he may be trying to replace him as her protector," Grace added.

"Or he won't call if he's jealous of how much attention the dog is getting," Morgan put in. "If he really believes that he's ready to eliminate all his competition, Ryan could be next."

0o0

"You think he's got the guts for a confrontation?" Ryan asked, surprised.

JJ nodded.

"He moved here, took Brody," she said, seriously. "He's not going to let anything get in his way."

"He cares about Keri – maybe he won't hurt her, he hasn't yet."

Emily winced. Hope was a fine thing, but they'd seen how this could play out before.

"He doesn't want to, but if he feels that he's going to lose her then he will," she told them.

"Lose her?" asked Ryan, incredulous.

"He's been rejected his entire life," Emily explained. "To escape, he built a vivid fantasy world in which someone accepted him."

"Me," Keri realised, resigned.

Emily nodded. It might not help her piece of mind, but the best weapon they could give Keri right now was preparedness.

"Worst case scenario, he gets you alone," she said, carefully. "In which case it would be important for you to play along with his delusion."

"You mean, like, tell him I love him?" Keri demanded, clearly out of her comfort zone.

"Within reason, do what he wants," Emily told her, feeling wretched.

"By gaining his trust, he'll let his guard down and that's when you can make your move," JJ elaborated.

"You think it could come to that?" Ryan asked, the fear obvious in both their eyes now.

"Well, not if we can help it," JJ assured them, with an air of confidence Emily knew was false. "We're going to have to comb through your life ever since he became a part of it."

"Haven't we already done that?" Keri asked, uncomfortable.

"We're talking about each and every moment for the last two years," Emily told her. "The answer could be in the smallest detail."

Keri stared between the two agents for a moment before finally accepting their advice. She looked shaken and tearful at this new indignity, but determined to do anything she could to get her life back.

"Okay."

Emily nodded, glad for her sake that Keri was such a strong woman. She was going to need that strength (and Ryan's support) if she was going to get through this.


	12. Too Close for Comfort

**Essential listening: Walk You Home, by Passenger**

 **0o0**

It seemed that someone upstairs had shuffled a few of their resources around, because suddenly people were being pulled off other cases and sent to their little corner of the department. Spencer suspected that this had a lot to do with Detective Berry, who had disappeared into his superior's office after their conversation about dog-napping and made him believe that a woman in his district was in very serious, preventable danger.

Spencer had to concede that he'd done a good job there, however much it irked him to do so. Now there were twenty or so personnel, all dedicated to helping Keri Derzmond stay alive.

"The man we're looking for is of a very specific personality type," said Grace, perched on the end of the desk. "Easily ignored."

"This man's an incompetent suitor, seeking intimacy with a woman unavailable to him," said Spencer. He was unable to prevent himself glancing at the mad woman beside him, and tried to hide it by looking down instead. "He thinks he's courting a soulmate, who in reality is a total stranger to him."

"He's suffering from a muted form of erotomania," Grace added, for clarification, unaware of his scrutiny. "Which means he misinterprets cues from the object of his affection as if they were meant for him – he believes Keri's secretly telling him that she loves him, when in fact she has no idea he's even there. It can be something as simple as a smile or a glance, or what she orders to eat in a restaurant. His infatuation with her is extreme."

"He's making some physical improvements," Morgan continued. "But even if he's able to get enough confidence together to speak to Keri, she'd find it more like talking to a twelve year old boy."

"A very dangerous one," Spencer went on. "His obsession has heightened, as indicated by his following her to Maryland, and the amount of detail in those letters. He writes instead of calls, which could mean that he's afraid of how he'll sound – he might be less educated, or have some sort of physical issue, like a speech impediment."

"It's likely that he may seem a little old fashioned in his manner," Grace elaborated. "Again, the choice of written communication over phone communication could be because it's a more traditional method of courting. Also the fact that he chose letters over email.

"He sent Keri antique earrings, in part because he wants to make her a part of his family, but also because he idolises the long-term relationships of the past. To him, they were ideal: longer lasting, more romantic," she went on. "It's probable that one or more of his older relatives had positive, long-term relationships. However, the relationships closer to his own generation will be unstable, reinforcing his sense of rejection."

"He wouldn't have written 'March twenty-first, 2006' in that first letter if that date didn't actually mean something to him," Morgan told them.

Spencer scratched his face, thinking aloud: "It could have been the first time he saw her at the bank, or the movies… I mean the – the possibilities are endless."

"Their paths crossed somewhere in Atlanta," said Morgan. "He followed her, so we need to focus on what she's doing here and how she's living. He's watching."

"His move here means that he's committed, and unless he's caught…" Spencer frowned. "He'll never break that commitment."

 _Which was bad news for Keri._

"Yet, if he perceives that she has…" Morgan added. "We all know that domestic disputes can be some of the most violent."

Spencer nodded, sadly, and watched the officers begin to drift away, each focussing on a different part of the investigation.

"Do you really think we can get to him before he – perceives that she's broken their imaginary commitment?" Berry asked, casting a pained eye over the board.

There was a pause while the three BAU agents looked at one another.

"No," said Grace, with a shrug. "I mean, it's the worst case scenario, but he's really ramping up his activity."

"I thought you were supposed to be the optimist?" Morgan asked, nudging her. "There's always hope," he told Berry. "But Pearce is right, we gotta work fast right now."

0o0

Dave stirred his noodles, thoughtfully peering at the picture of the family who had systematically destroyed their mother for decades, then been astonished when she'd murdered the mastermind of her misery. The detective really wasn't going to like what they had to say.

Okay, there wasn't a mark on her, but not all abuse left visible scars; every observation they had made told them this woman had been emotionally tortured for the entire duration of her marriage.

"And there's nothing else pending?" Aaron asked, speaking to JJ on his cell.

From what Dave had picked up from Aaron's side of the conversation, she had the rest of the team out in Maryland, working on another small case. It was unusual, but then, JJ never did anything without a good reason.

"No, no – it's okay," Aaron assured her. "Um… we'll be back tomorrow, I'm going to need the rest of you back then, as well. Okay, thanks."

He hung up, frowning.

"They're working on a single stalker case?" he asked.

"Mm-hmm."

"All of them?"

"Mm-hmm. JJ seems pretty passionate about it." He took the photograph from Dave and gazed sadly at the four smiling faces in the frame. "You know, sometimes you can see it, but – uh…" He shook his head. "They all look pretty happy."

"Happiness is easy to fake when you only have a split-second," Dave remarked, with a sardonic chuckle. "You should see how many happy looking photos I have of me with my exes."

Aaron smiled, shooting his old friend a curious glance. "Were you ever happy in any of your marriages?" he asked.

Dave thought about it for a moment. "I don't know, maybe – maybe not. If I was, I can't remember," he admitted. "I'm not sure if the idea – uh – of me and being married is a," he waved his hand. "Good idea."

"You kept trying," Aaron observed, amused.

"Well, I didn't have any kids," he shrugged.

"What do you mean?" Aaron asked, frowning now.

"Well, I mean I might have tried harder if there were children involved."

The change that came over Aaron's face was startling: it went from amused to rather hurt in an instant.

"I tried," he insisted.

 _Ah, crap._

"Hotch, I…"

He hadn't meant to make it sound so final, like there was no excuse for a marriage to break down if both parties didn't try.

"I gave absolutely everything to Haley and Jack, and my job," he said, haltingly.

It occurred to Dave that this was something he had been wanting to talk about for some time, but there was never a quiet moment in the BAU.

"So… something had to give," said Dave, hoping to ease some of the deep sadness lining his friend's face.

"Yeah… you're right," he said, softly. "But it doesn't mean I am any less committed – or try any less hard – for my son."

Dave shook his head.

"Hey Hotch, what the hell do I know?" he asked. "The only people I've ever made happy are divorce lawyers."

The other man sighed heavily, accepting this.

"Well, we've got four failed marriages between us, we're experts at something…" he quirked an eyebrow slightly, still speaking quietly to hide his emotion. "Where does it all go wrong?"

0o0

It was one thing to pick through the life of a victim once they were dead, or comb through the secrets of an unsub, but investigating Keri Derzmond's every move felt skeezy beyond belief, no matter how necessary it was.

The trouble was, Keri was a nice, average human being – and all nice, average human beings had secrets. From what he'd heard, Ryan hadn't reacted well to the knowledge that Keri had had an abortion very early into their relationship – and never told him about it. No one would.

Spencer leaned against the table, scowling up at the stalker-board and trying not to sulk. Grace and Detective Berry had gone out together to fetch lunch for the team and – in Grace's words – 'clear her head'. Little enough of that had gone on, as far as he could tell.

Right now, they were supposed to be taking a statement. She and the detective were now closeted in a far corner of the room with Ryan, their body language relaxed and comfortable, despite the situation. Though they were too far away for him to hear, Spencer was one hundred percent certain they were flirting.

He hunched his shoulders, trying to undo the tense knot that was forming between them.

It wasn't as if he'd thought anything could realistically happen between himself and Grace, despite that one, drunken night, but… Spencer bit his lip, hard; he had to get a handle on himself. It was just the way she was around him sometimes, when she took his hand or messed up his hair, or reached for him when she felt lost – things like that had begun to feel a little more intimate than friendship. Like his attraction to her wasn't just one-sided.

It was an unhappy thing to realise that, all this time, he had been imagining it.

He scowled at the photo of the back of the stalker's neck. There were times when he could kind of feel for the guy, strung out on someone he didn't have a shot with. There were better ways of dealing with it, of course.

At the table, JJ heaved a heavy sigh and dropped her pen – a clear sign of unhappiness in their usually unflappable media liaison. Spencer frowned. JJ hadn't been herself since the case came in, and he wasn't the only one to have noticed.

"Hey, why are you taking this so hard?" Prentiss asked, concerned.

"Keri's life has been turned upside down for the past two years and then we just come on in and tear it up some more," JJ complained.

Spencer shared a glance with Morgan.

"But, to catch her stalker, we have to ask those questions," Prentiss reasoned. "She knew it would be uncomfortable."

"That's an understatement," JJ groused.

Spencer's frown deepened. He'd never seen his friend like this. "JJ, you fought for this case," he said, trying to understand.

"You wanted to help Keri – that's what we're sittin' here tryin' to do," Morgan reminded her.

"Then why do I feel like we violated her too?" she demanded, angrily.

Perhaps realising how snappish she was being, she got up and walked out, narrowly avoiding taking Grace out on the way. The other agent, who had been heading for their little huddle, dodged lightly out of the way, staring after their colleague.

"I just left Detective Berry," she said, slowly. "It looks like Ryan's car's taken about five hundred dollars of damage… She okay?" Grace frowned, correctly interpreting the others' expressions. "Is it just me, or is JJ taking this pretty hard?"

0o0

They'd got Keri to describe the man she had spotted watching her from across the street to a sketch artist. He was a non-descript kind of man, from the look of it, which fitted their profile, but wasn't particularly helpful in terms of tracking him down.

"I _knew_ I'd seen him before!" she told them, trying to articulate some of the stress of seeing him – and the feeling that maybe there was a chance that she could beat him, get her life back. "At my dry-cleaners, at a restaurant! I didn't know where else to go."

"You did the right thing coming here," Detective Berry assured her.

"Keri, you're going to get through this," JJ told her, as the woman took a deep, settling breath. "You're strong."

"You've been smart, you've taken every necessary precaution," Morgan added. "You're not helpless, Keri. You're prepared and you're protected."

She let the breath out, sounding tearful but a little calmer. "I needed to heat that."

"Sounds like he's going to try to talk to her," said Berry.

"Could be a risky situation for him," said Spencer, with a grimace.

"Why him?" Keri demanded.

"Uh – he's setting himself up for rejection," Spencer explained, as gently as he knew how. "And if he feels anger or shame, there's a… possibility that he could turn violent."

"If he does, you need to keep your cool," said Grace. "You're a strong woman, Keri. You've come this far – and we've got your back."

The artist finished his sketch and handed it off to JJ.

"Alright, I'm going to get this picture out," she announced, hurrying off.

Keri's phone rang, and she walked a little way away to answer it.

"JJ okay?" Morgan asked the others, in an undertone.

"Yeah, she will be – once we get a lead," said Prentiss.

Spencer turned away, and was surprised to find Grace right beside him, eyeing Keri's back anxiously.

"I just hope it's enough," she murmured, so only Spencer could hear.

He met her eyes, guessing that (like him) she'd come across cases like this before, where it hadn't been.

0o0

It was never enough, Spencer reflected, grimly.

Less than an hour later they were hunched over a police department laptop in Keri Derzmond's kitchen, trying to track the guy who had just abducted her down. Before, the search for her stalker had been important, but there had been a certain amount of knowledge that they could take their time – get it absolutely right, for Keri's sake. Now, their hunt had become acute, finite.

If they didn't find him before he realised that Keri didn't love him, she would die.

They could only hope that the information they had given her would help, and that she was keeping her head, despite what could only be a harrowing experience. Assuming she was still alive, of course.

Garcia, visible in the top corner of the laptop screen, was employing everything she had to track this guy down.

" _There aren't any vans that have transferred from Georgia to Maryland,"_ she said, typing with one hand and writing notes with the other, her eyes never leaving the screen. _"So I am sending you registrations and IDs from both states – pictures comin' at you."_

Spencer, who had spent the longest studying the creepy partial body shots, ran his eyes over the IDs, discounting women and anyone with the wrong skin tone on sight.

"Let's start with Jeffrey Cramer, Chris Geezy and Michael Hicks," he decided.

" _Okay,"_ said Garcia, talking and typing. _"Cramer… works at a grocery store, Geezy is a heating and air tech, and Hicks… is on unemployment."_ They all sensed the change in her tone. The group as a whole tensed. _"But he's an IT guy – last employed at Legal Grind, tech support for law firms."_

"Keri's a lawyer," Spencer said, at once. "He – he might have worked on her computer."

" _He's got no criminal record,"_ Garcia told them, working as fast as her fingers could move. _"And his social is listed at a bank there… and the account lists…"_ They held their breath, praying for Keri's sake that this was their guy. _"Mike Hicks, 404 Lark Lane, Silver Spring!"_

"Thanks Babygirl," said Morgan, as she vanished, aware that they had enough to do their thing. "Alright, we got a name and an address."

"Would he really take Keri to his place?" Berry asked.

"It's unlikely," Morgan allowed. "But we should still check it out."

"Alright, I'll send a cruiser," said Berry, and ducked out of the room.

Spencer bit his lip, conscious of the finite amount of time they had left.

"And every second we're here, he's alone with her…" said Ryan, darkly, voicing the room's concern.

"There's got to be something else we can do to narrow this down," said Grace, pursing her lips.

"His obsession with Keri defines him," said Emily. "He wants to make her happy. He wouldn't take her where _he_ wants to go – he'd take her where _she_ wants to go."

"Maybe someplace that means something to the both of you," JJ suggested, looking at Ryan.

He thought for a minute, then narrowed his eyes on a likely subject. "I proposed to her on Chesapeake Beach…"

0o0

They waited in the lee of the restaurant on the quayside, ready to move as soon as they got the tip off from Grace. This was the spot Ryan had chosen to propose: it was quiet and quite beautiful, a short stretch of boardwalk between a couple of very expensive restaurants and the open ocean.

It would have been relaxing if it were any other day.

Spencer hunkered down behind Prentiss, who had just about forgiven him for West Bune now, and didn't even wince when Morgan had partnered them up. He hoped against hope their guy hadn't made her – he'd been watching Keri for so long now he probably knew most people connected with her case by sight, but they were stretched pretty thin. With no time to spare, JJ and Emily had excluded themselves given that he was watching the house, Berry had been a recognisable part of the police force for too long, Morgan looked too much like a FBI agent, and apparently, Spencer was 'just too weird looking' for someone with paranoia and hypervigilance.

He couldn't really fault them on that logic.

Grace, it seemed, had the least 'cop-like' appearance (probably because where she was from the 'coppers' had a different core culture), so she had been set up on a bench near the entrance to the quay with a book and a couple of sandwiches.

He didn't like that she was unarmed, but really that couldn't be helped. If Hicks figured out she was FBI…

"They're heading your way now," she said, in their ear pieces; everyone shifted, ready to move, hoping they were ready for him. "He's armed and controlling Keri, but I get the feeling she's taking charge."

Hicks walked her out onto the boardwalk as if they were taking a (very strained) romantic stroll. His demeanour changed instantly when he realised that the waterfront was crawling with law enforcement. The gun had moved from the small of Keri's back to her temple.

"Okay, okay," said Emily, trying to keep the situation calm.

Out of the corner of his eye, Spencer saw Grace edge very slowly into view, his breath catching hard in his throat. She was unarmed and without a bullet-proof vest; he kept his eyes on Hicks, suddenly appreciating _exactly_ what he had done to his colleagues when he faced Owen Savage.

Mutely, he tried to will her back behind the wall, behind _anything_ , just as long as she wasn't in Hicks' gunsight.

"Let's put these away," said Emily, putting her gun back in her holster. "I just wanna talk to you."

"Don't make me hurt her!" Hicks exclaimed.

Emily nodded, still sounding remarkably calm, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening at all. "You don't have to do that," she told him as he looked wildly around.

He spotted Grace, who was nonchalantly blocking his exit, her body turned away slightly, as if she was concealing a weapon. Out of nowhere, Spencer wondered if her talents (such as he was calling them in his head) extended to defence. None of the books he had been reading on the subject suggested that they could, but it was possible that she had access to different texts than he did. For all he knew, she might be able to disarm Hicks single-handed. Just in case she couldn't, Spencer kept his gun trained on Hicks' elbow; there was no other part of him that Keri wasn't obscuring. He was more or less using her as a shield. Beside him, JJ sucked air in through her teeth, emitting a barely audible whistle. This could go either way.

"Mike, we don't wanna take her away from you," Emily assured him, treading carefully. "Keri told me that she wants to be with you."

"It's true," said Keri, breathless with terror. "I'm so happy now."

Her performance was impressive, he could only see the disgust in her eyes – the one place Hicks wasn't looking. The local detectives, following Emily's lead, lowered and holstered their weapons.

"They think you're gonna hurt me," Keri explained, trying to bring Hicks' focus back to her, as they had schooled her.

It got his attention, at least. He looked like he was beginning to listen to her.

"Put it down," she continued, sounding calmer. "So we can be together."

He stared at her, the gun still pressed to her temple, unable to believe that his fantasies were actually coming true. Out of Hicks' eye-line, Spencer saw Grace's gaze slip momentarily to the right, as if someone was sneaking up behind the boat shed.

 _Morgan_.

"Where do you wanna go first?" she asked, the fear horribly obvious in her eyes. "Um… we could – we could go back to Atlanta." Hesitantly, she reached for the hand that was tightly gripping her arm and caressed it, gently. Reassuringly. "We could find a little house…"

Emily, whose gaze she seemed to be desperately glued to, nodded slightly. Keri turned to her attacker, trying to smile.

All at once, Hicks appeared to unbend, laughing in delighted surprise. No sooner had he put his gun back in his pants, Morgan leapt on him from the roof of the little shed and bore him to the ground, kicking and screaming. Keri ran straight for Grace – or possibly the exit – and collapsed, sobbing with relief, into her arms as both Emily and JJ surrounded her.

Spencer took Hicks' gun as Morgan manhandled the smaller man into cuffs and upright. Hicks struggled, yelling that Keri had betrayed him while Morgan and Berry bundled him into the waiting car.

"You did great," Emily told her.

"That was brilliant, Keri," Grace assured her. "You got him out here and to us – we could never have done this without you."

"You've got your life back," JJ told her, a hand on the woman's trembling shoulder. "You've got your life back."

0o0

 _A woman must not depend upon the protection of man, but must be taught to protect herself._

 _Susan B Anthony_

0o0

Spencer dumped the last box of photographs from Hicks' van on the front desk of the Silver Spring police department and cracked his back. There was just so _much_ of it. He and one of Berry's subordinates had ploughed through it, once the forensic techs were done. Again, Spencer was reminded of the little roadside shrines that he had read were popular in Europe and Japan, in this case dedicated to a woman, rather than a spirit or deity.

Real horror story material – no wonder Rossi sold so many books.

He glanced over at Berry, who was 'helping' Grace take the stalker board apart, ready for whatever came across his desk next. Currently, they seemed to be entirely ignoring the board, instead engaged in an earnest and (to his immense disappointment) intimate-looking conversation, easy smiles on both their faces.

Spencer scowled and turned away. If he and Grace hadn't been the last two agents in Maryland (the others having headed back to meet Hotch and Rossi) he would have simply got in the SUV and driven home, but stranding her would have been rude. And it would have given Berry further opportunity to play the gallant hero.

He chewed at the inside of his cheek, wishing that Silver Spring was in the Arctic, or Polynesia, or somewhere it would be impossible to commute to and from regularly.

He had just decided to wait in the car when an arm slid around his elbow.

"Ready to go?" Grace asked, her strawberry and bergamot scent creeping over him like a cloud.

There was something else there today, he realised. A new note. Rose, perhaps? Unconsciously, he tightened the pressure of his arm against hers, wanting to keep her close and warm. It always felt like a privilege, linking arms with her.

"Uh, yeah – but I thought…" he glanced behind him. "I thought you'd want to stay a little longer."

"Nope, all wrapped up," she announced, as they started out into the parking lot. "And I'm knackered." She grinned up at him, something he might be tempted to describe as fondness on her face. "Take me home, Doctor – unless the TARDIS is available, in which case you can take me somewhere interesting, but preferably without Daleks. I don't feel like running anywhere right now..."

He gaped owlishly at her before the corners of his mouth twitched up at her jocular comparison.

"But what about Detective Berry?"

"What about him?"

"You seemed – uh – that is, I'm pretty sure he –"

Grace snorted, correctly interpreting the direction of his thoughts. "Oh come on, it was just a bit of harmless flirting," she told him. "I was flattered, but I'm not interested."

"It – uh – it didn't seem all that harmless to Berry…" he managed, cursing his friend's ability to make him stutter.

 _Not interested?_

His heart lifted a little as she piloted him towards the Yuke.

"No, well," she said. "I can't help that – and I told him straight: he's nice and all, but he's just not my type."

"So he didn't give you his number?" Spencer asked, amazed.

His heart did a funny little wobble in his chest when she laughed.

Grace pulled away slightly, looking back over her shoulder with a smile. "He _did_ give me his number – in case I changed my mind."

"Oh…" Spencer deflated a little, stopping beside the car.

"But I don't think I will."

"No?" he asked, trying to keep his voice in a normal sort of octave.

"No. As I said: lovely, but not my type. Anyway, Morgan texted – wants to know if we want to meet the others for Chinese back in DC," she informed him, quickly tucking a flyaway strand of hair back behind her ear.

It immediately came loose again. Spencer gave her a half-smile, trying to suppress the urge to complete the action for her. The way she had responded when Berry had flirted with her earlier – he had been so certain she liked him back. She'd certainly never been like that around him.

But then, if Detective Berry wasn't her type…

Ecstatic to clutch any lifeline he happened across (particularly if it meant the indeterminately periwinkle eyes which were currently smiling up at him would continue to do just that), he allowed himself to smile back, feeling happier than he had since arriving in Silver Spring.

Aware that he was now pretty much just straight-up staring at Grace, he coughed, averting his gaze.

"The others are all back by now, right?" she prompted, when he didn't immediately answer.

"Oh – yeah, I think so. Rossi and Hotch, too," he told her, though he was inwardly dying to ask her what her type actually was (just for academic purposes, of course).

"Cool, so it's just you and me then."

She gave his arm a squeeze and climbed into the driver's seat – which was good, because it meant that the goofy smile that had escaped onto Spencer's face when she said it was out of her immediate view. He had just enough time to temper it into something more muted before getting in himself, wondering why he had such a hard time controlling his facial muscles around her.

 _I am so screwed_ , he thought as she returned his smile.

"Just you and me."

0o0

 _ **Note: Hi Akumi! Thanks for the wonderful reviews – they were like an extra Easter present**_ __ _ **I can't reply to them because you're signed in as a guest, but I will just say apologies in advance for needing the crash helmet in season four ;)**_


	13. Tabula Rasa

**Essential listening: Ashes to Ashes, David Bowie**

 **0o0**

It was a slow day, which – by BAU standards – meant a good day, and those members of the team who were currently in the office were taking advantage of a rare bubble of procrastination. Midway through a slog through reports and email answering, Penelope Garcia had appeared with a wicked grin and a sheaf of papers.

Seeing that Morgan was nowhere to be found (he and Rossi were in a consultation with a group of officers who had flown in from Washington State) she had quickly taken up residence on the corner of Reid's desk, beckoning Grace over to join them. JJ, too, was missing – out on a course in another part of Quantico.

"What's up?" Emily asked, peering over the desk partition.

"So I was doing my thing, all up in the internet, when what should I come across, but an eighteen year old Emily Prentiss, all dolled up and ready to rock," she grinned, producing a full A4 photograph with a little squeal of joy.

"Oh _God_ ," Emily exclaimed, unhappily.

Grace snorted, leaning over Reid's shoulder to get a better look. "Wow."

"Oh, knock it off," Emily complained.

"If people don't want to have these things found, they should contact their high schools and have their yearbook photos taken down," said Penelope, in a matter-of-fact voice. She grinned. "Besides, you look amazing."

Grace had to agree. Clearly, Prentiss had been a bit of a goth in high school – and for her yearbook picture she had gone all out: pale foundation, black, dominating eyeshadow, dark blue lipstick and _big_ hair, like Bowie's in _Labyrinth_ , only black rather than blonde. She was wearing a leather waistcoat over a top that appeared to be mostly made up of black net. The overall effect was quite spectacular, like she'd walked off the set of _The Crow_.

"I have to admit I'm currently quite glad my school didn't do a yearbook," she observed, over Reid's sniggering.

"I'm sure you looked great," Reid said, shaking his head at the picture in his hands.

Emily glowered at him over the partition.

Grace smirked. "I'm pretty sure I looked like a boy."

"You just know I'm going to find evidence of that somehow," Garcia teased her.

"I don't doubt it – but you won't get it from Alice, if that's what you're thinking. I have enough embarrassing pictures of her as a kid to blackmail her until she's ninety."

"Drat!"

"Come on, guys," Emily huffed. "Knock it off."

They probably would have, if they'd thought it was really bothering her – and if she didn't take just as much joy from teasing them when it was their turn.

"It's remarkable," said Reid, looking and sounding deadly serious. "Something like this makes you question everything you thought you knew."

"Yeah," said Garcia, earnestly. "It's like the monolith in _2001_."

Emily rolled her eyes at them.

"So, there was actually a time when something like this was socially acceptable?" he asked, feigning horror.

Garcia patted him gently on the shoulder. "Oh, you're young. The eighties left a lot of people confused," she continued, in a sorrowful tone, taking the picture. "This is – uh – especially sad, though."

"Alright – alright, very funny guys," Emily huffed, taking the picture off Garcia as her co-workers started to giggle like schoolchildren. "What did you do to it?"

"Do?" Garcia asked, laughing.

"Well, you obviously altered it in Photoshop or something," she waved the picture at Garcia. "That hair…"

"Oh, no – Pussycat, that's all you," Garcia assured her. "Garfield High, class of '89."

Emily stared at her younger self, clearly not recognising anything about the young woman in the picture.

"You really didn't change anything?"

"Nope – hacked it as-is," she frowned. "You're seriously trying to tell me you don't remember rocking that look?"

Prentiss shook her head, bemused.

"Perhaps your lack of recognition stems from a dissociative fugue suffered in adolescence," said Spencer, with an air of mischief. "Say at a… Siouxsie and the Banshees concert?"

Grace and Garcia laughed.

"It's so weird," said Emily, still caught on the picture. "It's like some other life…"

She turned it over, hastily stuffing it under some other paperwork as Hotch came down the steps from his office towards them. He'd been on the phone for at least twenty minutes already, and that usually meant they would soon be departing for business.

"What was that about?" Emily asked.

"Brian Matlough," he said.

"Who?" Grace asked, eyeing her fellow agents for elucidation.

"Uh – also known as the Blue Ridge Strangler," Spencer, the font of all knowledge, told her.

Grace nodded; it was one of the cases she'd read up on when Hotch had written to her accepting her transfer request from the Met.

"Oh, right," Garcia exclaimed, remembering. "That was, like, four years ago."

"Three victims in the Blue Ridge Parkway," Emily recalled, though – like Grace – she wouldn't have been a member of the team at that point.

"Allegedly," Reid qualified. "He was never convicted – he slipped into a coma before he could be tried."

"Looks like they're finally gonna get their chance," Hotch explained. "He just woke up."

Grace gave a low whistle. "That's going to be some reawakening," she observed.

Hotch nodded. "They want it to go to trial this week. Garcia, I want you to dig up all our case notes from that time – I know you were only just starting, so it may take you a little time –"

"I am on it, sir," she declared, hopping off the desk. "That was my first case with you guys."

"Aww," said Grace. "I can't imagine a time without you brightening things up around here."

Garcia preened as Hotch continued.

"Prentiss, when Morgan gets back I want him to brief you on the case – you can help prepare him for court. Reid, look back over the case files, refresh your memory –"

"Refresh my memory?" he asked, pulling a face.

Hotch chuckled. That was the trouble with having an eidetic memory, it seldom needed refreshing.

"Alright, take another look, see if there's anything we missed. Rossi and I will go over the notes, make sure there's nothing missing when the prosecution gets a hold of it."

"What about me, boss?" Grace asked, surprised to be missed from the round-up.

"I have another case I'd like you to consult on," he said.

It struck her that he was being deliberately vague.

"Occult?" she guessed.

"Occult. In Salem, Massachusetts."

"Of course it is," she said, ignoring the raised eyebrows of the rest of her team. "I'll get my go-bag."

0o0

"Pearce."

She'd answered without thinking, tired from the flight back; after dropping her report (completed on the plane, this time) off with Hotch and giving him a quick debrief, she'd had little on her mind other than food and sleeping. The last thing she needed right now was another emergency call out. This time, however, she was in luck.

" _Hey, did you land yet?"_

Grace smiled, nodding at the cab driver as she handed him the fare. "Hi Spencer. Yeah, just got home, why?"

" _There's a street party at the market."_

"Is there?" she asked, looking over her shoulder.

Apple Tree Lane was quiet as the grave – unusually so for only 8 p.m. It seemed that tonight, everyone really did know something she didn't.

" _Yeah – some kind of fifties thing. Garcia and Prentiss are going, and they said something about dressing up. You wanna go?"_

Tiredness forgotten, Grace laughed. She let herself in.

"In costume?"

" _Yeah! I figure a shirt and a tank top would work for me…"_

"You do more or less dress for that time period anyway," she chuckled. "Sure, I'll have a dig through my wardrobe, see if I can fashion some kind of swing dress."

" _Great! I'll – uh – see you in about half an hour?"_

"Assuming I don't fall asleep, definitely."

0o0

Grace looked at herself critically in the mirror, surprised that she'd actually had a red polka-dot skirt in her house and pleased with the general result. That was the thing about having a lot of blouses for work – most of them could be pressed into service as something else – like the top half of a fifties party concoction.

She'd even found some giant red earrings and pinned her hair up at the sides; having had it in plaits for the journey back it had sprung out in sporadic curls – it was being unusually compliant tonight. She was just applying some extremely red lipstick when Reid knocked.

Grace opted to let the door creak open of its own accord while she got her shoes on. Sometimes, having magic (and there being someone around who didn't freak out when she used it) was a bit of a bonus. Well, who didn't _totally_ freak out.

"Just so you're aware, that was extremely creepy," he called; she found him eyeing the front door with an air of great distrust.

"Thank you," she said, and preened. "I try."

He shook his head, a smile already on his face; it broadened when he caught sight of her. "Wow," he said, appreciatively. "You look – uh…"

"I shall take at as a compliment," she grinned. "And back at you. Nice bow tie!"

She gave it a gentle flick with her finger, making him laugh. It might have been her imagination, but she thought she saw the tips of his ears turn just a little pinker than normal. He waited for her to lock up, hands in his pockets, looking like a history professor from an earlier time, waiting for his date.

She pushed the thought that this might be what he thought this was out of her head. He'd probably just seen the parallel, the same way she had.

"I heard you got a conviction," she said, trying to convince herself she wasn't blushing a little too, as they set off. "Prentiss said it was a bit touch and go…"

"Yeah, I guess your defendant escaping mid-case and leading you to the body you never found is – uh – not quite way the DA was expecting it to pan out."

He offered her his arm almost tentatively; Grace took it automatically. It had become habit for them now, whenever there wasn't a case – another nail in the coffin of her friend's derision for physical contact. Coming to maturity in a team full of British coppers hadn't really left any room for being squeamish about proximity, and now she was in America she was glad her new team lived in the same kind of close-quartered bubble that the Unconventional Crimes Unit had.

She had been worried, before they got used to her, that they held themselves more separate – clinical. She was accustomed to the smell of other people, the reassuring knowledge that they were there, that they were human.

Of course, as soon as she had met Garcia that particular anxiety had been put to bed.

Tonight, Reid smelled of lanolin – probably because of the knitted tank he was wearing – as well as the soft, peppery scent that was all his own. Grace smiled. It was like a second homecoming.

"He changed his plea as soon as he realised he really had murdered all those women," Spencer mused. "I can't begin to imagine what that must be like – to wake up with a clean slate and have to come to terms with the fact that the person you were before strangled and sexually assaulted at least four women."

"I think it would be fairly close to being in hell," Grace remarked, more soberly. "Like suddenly regaining a conscience all at once."

"Mmm," he agreed. "I think they've got him on suicide watch now."

"I would, if it were me." She glanced at him, unwilling to surrender the evening to such morbidity. Go with the living, as her old Governor would have said. "Hotch told me you returned the victim's bracelet to her dad."

Spencer pursed his lips together. "He brought a gun to the court," he said, thoughtfully.

"The dad?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck me, Hotch missed that part out!" she gasped. "Did he get caught?"

"No, I got it off him before he made it inside."

Grace stopped, which meant that Spencer span on his heel as he tried to carry on, connected as they were.

"You disarmed him?"

"Yeah," he said, apparently confused as to why this should be a big deal. "He was worried Matlough would get off – I told him that shooting someone wasn't the same thing as justice."

"And you knew he was going to bring in a gun because…?" She let it hang there, ready for him to elaborate on.

Spencer shrugged. "The same way you would – his demeanour was shifting towards futility at the end of day three, but the next morning he seemed determined and full of purpose."

Grace was impressed, and said so. "Good shout," she told him. They started walking again; Grace shot her friend a sly glance. "I'm guessing you didn't tell anyone about the gun."

"Not until after the trial," he admitted. "He needed to be in that room – he just didn't need to shoot anybody while he was there."

Grace chuckled and hugged his arm, thankful that there was someone like him around who cared enough to try to bring people closure.

"You're such a big softie sometimes, Spencer."

He gave her a half-smile, confused at her response, but pleased it was positive.

"How was Salem?" he asked, after a beat or two.

"Oh, not all that occulty, as it turned out." She chuckled. "More or less your bog-standard domestic in the end. I guess people see a murder with a couple of dribbly candles nearby and immediately jump to any conclusion with a broomstick in it."

"People are drawn to patterns," he mused.

"Yeah, particularly in a place with that much magical heritage – it's practically myffic," she added, putting on her best East End accent.

Reid snorted. "I bet none of them realised they had a real witch in their midst."

"Oh, one or two of them did," she said, gazing across the road, remembering. "Kind knows kind, and all that."

She could feel him looking at her, the question on the tip of his tongue, but it wasn't an evening for elaborating.

"I almost forgot," she said, digging in her purse. "I brought you something for your Halloween collection…"

Triumphantly, she pulled out a purple string witch doll, riding on a broomstick; the keychain had been hanging from a lampshade in a magic shop that had little in the way of actual magic in it and had immediate brought Reid to mind.

"Thanks," he laughed, happily. "Now I have two witches to worry about."


	14. Lo-Fi

**Essential Listening: The Oldest Established Permanent Floating Crap Game in New York, by Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin (Guys and Dolls)**

 **0o0**

You could always tell when it was going to be a tough one. JJ had started herding them into a briefing even before they'd managed to sit down. Urgency seemed to be the order of the day, today.

Hotch was already in the situation room, watching CCTV footage of a point-blank execution-style murder. Grace eyed it as the team hurried in: on what could only be an underground platform a man in a hood strolled up to a random guy reading a map, shot him in the back of the head and then sauntered off as if nothing had happened.

As someone who had commuted on the London Underground for nearly ten years, it sent a shiver down her spine. Those platforms could be incredibly dark, lonely places at times – the perfect hunting ground for an unsub who wanted anonymity.

Hotch paused the tape, looking even more pensive than usual.

"Don't get comfortable – there'll be time to debrief on the plane," he said, without turning around.

Instantly, the team switched from early morning fuzziness to business-like sharpness, responding to their team leader's serious tone.

"Where are we headed?" Spencer asked, as Hotch rewound the footage.

"New York."

Everyone nodded. Given their occupation, they all followed the news with an ear for murder, and the media had been all over the killings in New York.

"Five shootings in two weeks," Rossi remarked. "It's about time we got the call."

"I wanna take Garcia with us," said Hotch, assessing his team. "Hopefully they'll give us access to their surveillance systems."

"What do we know?" Emily asked.

"All the killings are midday," Hotch told them, tersely. "Single gunshot to the head with a .22."

"Any witnesses?" JJ queried.

"No."

"Midday – just before the rush," Grace observed. "Quiet enough to do the deed and busy enough to disappear into the crowds afterwards."

"22. Calibre pistol's only a hundred and fifty-two decibels," Spencer reeled off. "Uh – New York streets and subways are routinely over a hundred. It could be that people aren't even registering the gunshot until the unsub's already leaving the scene."

"They sound like mob hits," Morgan observed.

"Except none of them have ties to organised crime," Hotch informed him waving a hand at the screen.

"Do they have any connection to each other?" Emily asked.

"None they've found."

Grace, who had nicked Hotch's file from the desk, flicked through it, troubled.

"The victimology's weird," she said. "It's all over the shop. Age, gender, ethnicity – these people have nothing in common except being shot on the subway."

"How about communication with the police?" Morgan asked. "Has the unsub tried to make contact?"

"Surveillance cameras have captured video of three of the murders," Hotch explained, playing the clip again. "This is the latest."

They took this to mean 'no'.

"That's the best image they have?" JJ asked, her voice pinched by an accompanying wince.

"They're all the same," said Hotch, demonstrating by showing them footage of the other murders. "He wears a hood and keeps his head down."

"This guy's bold – crowded areas, broad daylight," Emily profiled.

"He wants our attention," Grace guessed, watching a young man fall to the ground outside a diner.

"Are they completely random?" Rossi asked

"Seems that way," said Hotch, thoughtfully.

"He want's everyone's attention," Grace conceded.

Spencer frowned, observing darkly: "It's Son of Sam all over again."

0o0

 _The man visited by ecstasies and visions, who takes dreams for realities is an enthusiast; the man who supports his madness with murder is a fanatic._

 _Voltaire_

0o0

Grace looked up from her notes and sent Reid a sharp glare. He obviously hadn't intended to kick her in the knee, but the person who had designed the jet hadn't taken someone with his leg length into account. With Grace's similarly long limbs, sitting opposite her friend at the jet's little table could be a bit of a battle until they inevitably both conceded that if they were going to stay sitting where they were for the duration of the flight, their legs were going to have to touch and they were just going to have to live with it.

After over a year with the team, the initial battle had settled into an almost obligatory grimace and cursory attempt at looking like they cared. Grace no longer did; she had a shrewd suspicion that Spencer was fairly comfortable with the general tangle, too, based on how often they fell asleep on the couch together watching TV on their evenings off. It never seemed to bother him anywhere else – only where they had an audience. It didn't bother her, either.

It was one of those thoughts she didn't want to examine too closely; it felt a little too much like dangerous territory.

Today she and Spencer were hemmed in by Hotch and Rossi, respectively, but Grace doubted that anyone else was paying attention. They were all too focussed on the case – except JJ, who was unusually quiet, and Garcia, who had other things on her mind.

"How come I only get to travel with you guys, like, once every two years?" she complained, already making herself at home.

Grace craned over the back of her seat to see their friend, looking (today) like Emma Peel from the Avengers, clutching a purse in one hand and her knitting in the other. Having Garcia around always made things easier – both logistically, and because she was their own, private profiling muse. Already, the jet seemed less tense.

"Trust me, Momma, it can get old," Morgan warned her, handing her the dark pink go-bag he had gallantly carried on board for her.

"Oh right, like the way that spa treatments at five star hotels can get old," she quipped.

Emily, who was clearly not in the most sober of moods, snorted.

"Remember the time we got on board and they hadn't chilled the crystal?" she teased, winking at Morgan, who responded in kind.

"Ooh, I almost quit the BAU that day," he grinned.

"Okay, you know what? You guys can joke all you want – I am never leaving this plane!"

She sauntered off to the kitchenette to make herself a tea before lift-off.

Rossi – who had his mind on the job – flicked through headshots of the dead.

"The victims?" he asked, when he'd set down the last one.

"Each killed in a completely different neighbourhood," Hotch told them, looking up from the file. "Hell's Kitchen, Murray Hill, Lower East Side, China Town, East Harlem…" he shook his head.

Grace pursed her lips.

"Each one on or around a Metro stop. If I were back home, I would list them by tube stations," she mused. "Bakerloo, London Bridge, Holborn, Russell Square… It's like he's using the underground system as a means of choosing his victims – the stops are on a different line for almost every killing."

"It doesn't make any sense," Spencer complained. "There's no common victimology, no sexual component, no robbery, no geographical connection. Uh..." His frown deepened. "Do the police have any leads?"

"He's killing roughly every two days," said Hotch. "The press is having a field day." He grimaced. "It sounds like the mood on the street's getting pretty edgy."

"It's a joint FBI-NYPD task force?" asked Rossi, as everyone made a mental map of how far their resources might feasibly stretch if that were the case.

Hotch nodded.

"Kate Joyner heads up the New York Field Office," Hotch told them.

Grace caught her breath, looking up at her boss sharply.

 _Kate Joyner._

It was like something out of a previous life – like suddenly realising the ghosts you had consigned to memory and experience were still real, still breathing, waiting for you to stumble upon them once more.

She bit her lip, the shock of recollection rendering her momentarily speechless. Unknowingly, Hotch's words had taken her right back to a familiar, untidy desk in a dingy office, overcrowded with files and boxes of paperwork. She could even smell the musty, damp aroma from the one radiator that was permanently broken – the one that would hiss alarmingly if anyone dared to turn it on – and hear her co-workers voices, laughing, chatting, arguing…

Catching cups of tea on the fly, taking all the cases no one else wanted. Working late into the night, eyes red from lack of sleep and too many hours spent peering at arcane texts or land registry files. Typing up information requests on an actual typewriter, because DCI Lightfoot didn't approve of 'all that new-fangled crap', like computers or mobile phones; the party they had thrown when Sophie and Grace had finally won a concession and brought in a temperamental computer. Trying to access HOLMES on the shakiest internet connection outside of a sea-going vessel; dodging colleagues who thought their whole operation was some kind of elaborate joke.

The faces of precious friends swam through her mind, making her eyes prickle:

Max aiming a paper aeroplane at the back of Geoff's head while he constructed a murder board; Martin waxing lyrical about the benefits of healthy eating; Roger and Sophie pointedly ignoring him and tucking into sugary pastries from the market; Sam whistling G&S – loudly, and permanently out of key; Mandy gossiping about her kids; Arnold and Belle popping in for lunch, getting mustard all over their autopsy reports; Alice reading unobtrusively under the table; the Gov' laughing.

Simon.

Even just the smell of him.

She hadn't thought about him in weeks (which was an event in and of itself), but the simple recollection did something painful and complicated to her chest.

Feeling oddly claustrophobic, Grace felt the sudden urge to get up and pace, but Hotch was in the way, and any sudden action on her part would only lead to questions she didn't want to answer. All at once, the unavoidable proximity of Spencer's limbs under the table felt like an intrusion. She felt trapped, having unwittingly walked into a set of memories she would rather forget; he frowned up at her, feeling her calf shift unhappily against his.

She schooled her features into something calm and professional as best she could.

 _Kate Joyner. Oh yes._

Perhaps she had been foolish to believe that she could leave all the secrets of her life in London behind her. Even with a whole ocean between the two countries, people moved from one to the other with such ease these days…

She remembered Detective Inspector Joyner very well, and she was under no illusion at all that the woman might have forgotten _her_.

"She's running point on the case and called me directly." He glanced above Rossi's head towards the front of the jet, where JJ was lurking. "Uh, JJ, will you tell him we're ready to go?"

"Right…" she said.

Grace glanced in her direction, distracted from her internal information overload; the media liaison didn't appear to have been listening at all. That wasn't good.

"Kate's starting to butt heads with the lead detectives and wanted a fresh set of eyes."

"Joyner, I know her," said Morgan. "She's a Brit, right?"

Everyone, not unexpectedly, turned to look at Grace, who smirked, feeling uncomfortable.

"There are rather a lot of us," she told them, pointedly. "Whole country full, in fact."

"Well, uh, dual citizenship," Hotch allowed. "Her father's British, her mother's American. She was a big deal at Scotland Yard before coming to the Bureau."

This time, even Hotch looked at her.

"I remember her," Grace admitted, feeling that some sort of response was probably required. "Bit of a legend at Scotland Yard, as you said. I worked under her on a couple of cases – on loan from my old team. DI Joyner is an extremely capable woman, and a very good copper." She smiled slightly, in recollection. "From what I remember, she didn't suffer fools lightly."

"I heard she can be a little bit of a pain in the ass," Morgan related, with a quirk of his brow.

"I liked her immensely," said Grace, with complete honesty.

Spencer chortled.

"I didn't think she was a pain in the ass," said Hotch.

"You know her too?" Emily asked.

"We liaised when she was still at Scotland Yard."

Grace winced, hoping that none of the chatter connected with her or her team had ever come up in conversation between Inspector Joyner and her boss. Hopefully, professional discretion had put gossip out of the question; no force liked to air its dirty laundry in front of outsiders – even outsiders they liked.

"And she's good?" Rossi asked.

"I think we're lucky to have her," Hotch replied.

Rossi nodded, impressed. That was high praise from Aaron Hotchner.

" _And we're cleared for take-off. Please take your seats."_

Morgan and Emily slid into their seats as everyone fixed their seatbelts in place.

 _Kate Joyner_ , Grace thought. _And all the time I was working for her, she was liaising with Hotch. Small world._

It was a little unsettling to think of herself as connected to the BAU back then, by only a couple of degrees of separation. To think, an office wall and a telephone cable was all that had been keeping her and her friends apart – and coppers talked.

Oh yes, they talked.

Grace set her jaw.

Whatever the next few days held, if she could possibly avoid it she wasn't going to lose her head – and perhaps that meant she wouldn't lose any friends.

0o0

Federal Plaza was a thing to behold, even compared to Quantico. Most of the buildings in Virginia were a few decades old now, still fit for purpose and ageing well; these were all chrome and glass, like the building had dressed to impress, matching all its immaculately suited inhabitants. It was perfect for the heart of a city like New York. Not ostentatious, but radiating an air of firm confidence and solidity.

Grace put herself first in the queue for the lift so she could be the last one out. She needed the extra moments to steel herself; the very real possibility that her career in the FBI was about to come screeching to a halt was seriously damaging her calm.

Absently, she fingered the pocket watch her father had given her.

 _It could be worse_ , she reminded herself. _This could actually be Scotland Yard._

They strode out of the lift and into a busy office that appeared to be operating under martial law. Despite her qualms, the corners of Grace's mouth began to lift. Joyner always had a way with teams, keeping a cool, strict hand on the tiller. It had been part of why Grace had liked her.

Maybe, in a different world, they could have been friends.

Joyner stalked towards them, small and direct, and exactly as Grace remembered her. She didn't appear to have aged at all in the three years since she'd seen her; the suit she was wearing wouldn't have looked out of place in the Met, even. About eight years older than Grace, she cut a confident, demure figure in the fast-paced office. A neat, orderly woman trailed after her, trying to keep up with Kate's quick footsteps.

A PA, Grace guessed – and a good one, for Joyner to trust her.

She braced herself.

"Is it just me, or does she look exactly like Haley?" JJ asked Garcia, in a whisper.

Concentrating everything on looking like a woman who was Not Panicking, the question caught Grace off guard. Her eyes slid to the left in time to see Garcia nodding covertly and pulled a face. Personally, she couldn't see the likeness, but that was possibly because she had known Kate Joyner before, and couldn't imagine her as anyone other than herself.

"Kate," said Hotch, warmly.

"Aaron."

Joyner shook his hand with an earnest smile. Grace took this as a good sign; anyone who remembered Hotch fondly was doing something right.

"How've you been?" she asked.

"Well, thank you," he replied, in a friendly manner. "Uh – this is my team: Kate Joyner, this is David Rossi, Emily Prentiss, Jennifer Jareau, Penelope Garcia, Derek Morgan, Spencer Reid and Grace Pearce."

Because she was expecting it, Grace saw the exact moment when Kate recognised her name. She had been keeping to the back of the group until now, so she was reasonably sure she hadn't been spotted before.

 _Looks like your day just got more complicated than you wanted, too. Well, good._

"Hello Kate," she said, carefully schooling her features into professional, open warmth.

Joyner stared at her, exactly as if she had seen a ghost. The comparison made Grace smile inwardly, pleased that she wasn't the only one discomfited by this unexpected reunion.

"Sergeant Pearce," said Joyner, slowly. "Well I never."

"Inspector – well, Agent now – same as you," she said, lightly, aware that her team were now paying slightly more attention than disinterested parties really ought to be.

The other woman's lips pursed for a fraction of a second, her eyes narrowing. "I'm not sure I would ever describe you and I as being the same," she said, coolly.

Grace heard Garcia's barely audible gasp; felt Spencer and Emily begin to eye them both with puzzled interest. She gave the smallest of shrugs, still smiling. Whatever she thought of her, it was very unlikely Joyner would say anything out here. It would be unprofessional, and that was one thing the head of the New York Field Office would never be.

As expected, Kate turned her attention back to the rest of the team, the picture of a perfect team player. "Thanks for being here," she said. "If you need anything, please don't stand on protocol."

"What can you tell us about the city's surveillance system?" Garcia immediately asked.

"It's run by the NYPD, it's only in the infant stages – it's been rather controversial," she told them, and smirked at Grace. "American privacy laws." Grace nodded, pleased to have some common ground at least. "Erm, but they've had some success," Joyner finished.

"And I'll have complete access?" Garcia checked.

"They're already expecting you," Joyner told her, somehow managing not to sound smug. "Shelley?"

She turned to her efficient PA, who was already beckoning to Garcia. The tech analyst looked happy to be out in the field, and happy to be accommodated.

"I'd like to get a map of the borough," said Spencer. "I want to do a comprehensive geographical profile of the area in order to ascertain the unsub's mental map before it's corrupted by our own linkage blindness."

"I see you've brought your own computer."

They turned to find two men had joined their little huddle. One was tall, youngish and looked fairly affable, the other was short, stocky and distinctly unimpressed.

 _Partners_ , Grace guessed.

She eyed the older man, a veteran of the force by the looks of it, and good at his job. Not very happy at being railroaded by the FBI. She recognised a grumpy policeman when she saw one.

Spencer looked disconcerted and very slightly hurt, and while Grace was tempted to set the man straight, she just couldn't bring her mouth to work. That would have meant drawing attention to herself – and right now, she couldn't afford that. Instead, she settled for shifting her weight towards her friend and a stern glare.

"Detectives Brustin and Cooper," Joyner introduced, sounding very slightly strained. "I'll let you do the introductions."

 _Ah, so these are the detectives whose heads she was 'butting' up against…_

"You caught the first shooting?" Rossi asked them.

"Uh, they've all been in different precincts," Cooper told them, more patient than his friend. "It wasn't until the third murder anyone even made the connection."

"I guess this is where we play nice and ask you what you need," Brustin growled, scowling off across the office.

Joyner laughed, presumably having been dealing with Brustin for several days now.

"I'll let you all figure out what that is," she said. "I just ask that you run everything back through me. It's been my experience that having one butt on the line is enough," she added, on their looks.

Brustin scoffed, audibly.

"Yes ma'am."

"Can I have a word with you?" she asked Hotch, eyes flashing momentarily in Grace's direction. "In private."

She felt her stomach clench.

"Sure. Excuse me."

"They – um – _liaised_ when she was at Scotland Yard," Emily told JJ, in an undertone.

"Oh, of course," said JJ, with a knowing smile.

"You know," Grace remarked, just loud enough for them to hear. "It is just possible to work with someone and not have sex with them."

Four of her colleagues looked distinctly unconvinced, which made Grace have to fake a cough to prevent anyone guessing she was laughing. Stalwartly ignoring the voice in the back of her head that was pointing at Reid and calling her a hypocrite (and the fact that said fellow agent's ears were turning a little pink), she raised an eyebrow.

"Come on, it's Hotch – you really think he'd have cheated on Haley?" she hissed.

Fortunately, Rossi was acting more like a grown-up. He took Brustin to one side, trying to ameliorate the man. Grace moved out of the way to let them pass, trying not to stare too obviously into Joyner's glass office and hoping that the subject under discussion wasn't her.

0o0

"So, you're getting resistance from NYPD?" Aaron surmised, glad to have a moment to assess how bad said resistance was.

"Nothing I wasn't expecting," Kate told him, dismissively. "They're good detectives, it's just no self-respecting cop wants to have his arse kicked by some broad with a posh British accent."

Aaron chuckled. No, they probably didn't.

"That's an interesting team you've got out there," she observed, the quirk of her lips telling him that she _really_ meant it.

He watched her expression for a few seconds, but she knew he was doing it and was keeping her face infuriatingly blank. He hadn't missed the strange tension between Kate and Pearce; he trusted and liked both of them on a personal and a professional level. It was strange to imagine them having a problem with one another, particularly after Grace's glowing recollection of the woman that had been her superior.

"Agent Pearce tells me she worked with you at Scotland Yard," he said, curious.

"Yes," said Kate. "There were a couple of all-hands-on-deck cases where she was seconded to the Major Incident Team. She was a DS then – made Inspector not long afterwards. Very young for the job, I thought."

Aaron narrowed his eyes. It seemed to him that Kate was choosing her words very carefully, being entirely too circumspect. Did she mean 'young – that's impressive', or 'young – inexperienced' – or 'young, bordering on dangerous'?

"She's a good agent," he said.

Kate smiled slightly.

"That's high praise, coming from you." Her mouth quirked up further at some private recollection. "I'm sure she is. She was certainly memorable, back in London."

"Memorable?"

"Yes. Unforgettable, really." His friend gave him a sideways look. "What did she tell you about her old team – the Unconventional Crimes Unit?"

"That they caught the stranger cases," he said, slowly, recalling several uncomfortable discussions with his junior agent about the mess someone had made of her file – and the whole 'seeing the dead' thing. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"Nothing," Kate lied. "If you say she's trustworthy, then I'll take that as read."

"I trust my team completely," he said, a little stiffly.

And so he did – within their individual boundaries. His friend nodded, pursing her lips as if she would like to disagree.

"What can you tell me about Derek Morgan?"

0o0

Having ensured that Morgan and Rossi were dealing with Brustin, Spencer approached Cooper. Truth be told, he was a little annoyed by the man's partner, though he could easily understand why a detective might feel uncooperative around the FBI.

"Hey, uh – so what's your partner's problem?" he asked, bluntly.

He felt, rather than saw, Prentiss wheel around and join him, the expression on her face suggesting that she would have preferred him not to have said anything. Spencer ignored her. Brustin had been out of line and his partner knew it.

"Uh…" Cooper glanced behind him, where Brustin was being loudly gruff with Rossi. "Well, by the – uh – fourth murder the FBI was brought in," he explained, honestly. "That's good – we can use all the help we can get, but – uh – all of a sudden _she's_ takin' meetings with the mayor and calling you all without letting us know anything about it."

Spencer shifted his gaze to Joyner's office, where Hotch and Kate were having what looked like a fairly tense conversation.

Grace had said she didn't suffer fools lightly; she hadn't said she was a control freak.

 _Mind you_ , he thought, spotting Grace's reflection in the glass, _she didn't say anything about Joyner not liking her, either._

There was something tense about the way she was standing; closed off, almost. She looked almost the way she had when she was still angry with him and didn't want to talk – but it wasn't anger making her limbs stiffen now. It was fear.

Spencer frowned. He didn't like to see her unhappy, and while she was hiding that unhappiness pretty well, a year and a half of nearly constant company meant he could see right through her, in a way the others probably couldn't. After all, he spent slightly more time observing her than was entirely proper for a work relationship.

It was strange remembering that his friend had had this whole other life before joining the BAU – and stranger still meeting someone from that time. He wondered if Joyner knew about her father's death, or her son… Grace had told him, rather vaguely, that people had been a bit weird around her after her father's passing; he'd read from the dark look on her usually affable features that this meant they'd decided it had been her fault.

There was her magic, too. That was the kind of thing that could set someone apart. He could imagine someone losing friends that way.

He recalled the first time they'd really talked – both of them the worse for drink (and Dilaudid, in his case) – in a stifling club in New Orleans. He had made some lame joke about her being a real hit back home, and she had looked – just for a moment – like he'd punched her in the gut.

"We're only here to help – think of us as a resource," said Prentiss, wrenching his thoughts away from his friend.

"Okay," said Cooper, and Spencer could tell from his face that he didn't entirely believe they would be all that useful. "Profile me."

He looked at Prentiss, who looked amused, but puzzled. Trying to work out where on the spectrum of disbelief the detective stood.

"What am I thinkin'?"

Abruptly, Prentiss laughed and shook her head.

"That's _never_ gonna happen," she told Cooper, entertained.

The man grinned and nodded, and Spencer wondered whether he wasn't missing something there.

"No offence, but we've had five murders," said Cooper, more soberly. "Hope it gets better than that."

Prentiss rolled her eyes as he walked away.

"You asked," she muttered, and Spencer snorted.

"Anyone else get the impression we're about as welcome as Typhoid Mary?" Grace asked, walking over in what could only reasonably be classified as a skulk.

"Tch-yeah," Prentiss scoffed. "I'll go see if Cooper wants to give us their files."

"The PA gave me a map," said Grace as Emily stalked away, handing it over. "See-through and everything."

"Wanna help work up the geographical profile?" he asked, taking in the slight trace of anxiety in her eyes.

Playfully, Grace put her head to one side and smirked. "You know, Doctor, that's the best offer I've had all week."

"That's the only offer you've had all week," he quipped, earning himself a smack on the arm and a saucy wink.

"Steady on, captain."

 _You're never normally like this_ , he thought, as they set to work on the board. _You're sassy, but not flirtatious and playful in the office – at least, never with me. You're overcompensating because of Joyner – she's got you rattled._

He gave Grace a cheeky smile as she went in search of dry wipe markers for the map, which she heartily returned. A little too heartily.

 _Were you like this in London?_ he wondered, dumping his bag under the desk. _Is this the Grace Pearce that Kate Joyner would remember – and would expect to see again?_

Fine. If Grace needed someone to flirt with and pretend that there was absolutely definitely nothing wrong, then that was fine by him.

Someone had to look out for her.

0o0

The duty officer showed Garcia into a dark, anonymous room that was entirely devoid of homeliness. She tried not to show her dismay – not everyone had a boss as awesome as Hotch to give them considerable leeway in her choice of office décor.

A young, smartly dressed officer was waiting for her.

"You must be FBI – Lisa Bartleby," she said, getting up to shake Garcia's hand.

"Penelope Garcia – may I?"

Lisa gestured to a chair beside her small but efficient array of screens.

"I – uh – hardly ever get visitors," Lisa told her, as she got out her laptop, notebook and garish pen.

Garcia laughed indulgently; such was the life of a tech. They were the unsung heroes in the war on bad karma.

"You will hardly know I'm here," she told her, though even in her own head that sounded unlikely. "What's your operating system?"

"Uh – Linux OS with – uh – six gigs of RAM…"

Garcia raised an eyebrow at the specs on her screen, impressed.

"And a dual quad-core three gigahertz processor, with a G-Force 8800 Ultra-Extreme vid-card and a Cisco ASA 5500 firewall," she listed.

"Yeah," said Lisa, sounding justly proud.

"Bitchin'. How many cameras?"

"Uh – four thousand, four hundred and sixty-eight," said Lisa. "Not including the ones that only run in the housing projects."

"And all the footage is stored?"

"Catalogue and digitised."

"Beautiful," Penelope remarked. "'Cause my boss-man wants me to send him a file so he can run facial recognition software on each of the crime scenes…"

"Um – uh, I've already enhanced all the photos as much as I can," Lisa protested, with a touch of professional defensiveness.

"No, I'm talking about using it on the crowd immediately after the shootings," she explained, typing while she spoke. "This is _icky_ , but these creeps – they sometimes come back and watch the police deal with their handiwork. And, voila!" she announced, as the 'upload complete' sign flashed up on the screen.

Lisa pulled up another chair and settled in to help. It was going to be a long night.


	15. Projections

**Essential listening: Englishman in New York, The Police**

 **0o0**

The platform where the latest victim had been shot was quiet now, after the morning rush. Spring Street was an old station, the kind with faded, slightly grubby tiles and columns you could easily hide behind. It struck Derek that it would be pretty eerie at night, even without a recent murder. In the day, it was open with decent lines of sight – just about the last place a sensible unsub would kill somebody and not expect to get caught.

Except this cocky son of a bitch, apparently.

"Who in the hell thinks they could get away with murder in the middle of the day in New York City?" he asked, rhetorically, turning to Rossi.

"Someone patient," said the older man. "He waits for the one to get separated from the flock…"

"Bam," said Derek, miming shooting his friend in the back of the head; nearby commuters drew away slightly, anxious.

"Is that the spot?" JJ asked Detective Brustin, who wasn't really paying attention.

"Hmm?" he asked, looking down. "Yeah, thereabouts."

He walked to the platform edge, every fibre of his body telling them that he didn't want to be there. This was clearly another waste of his time. Derek shared a look with Rossi, who frowned.

"Are we boring you?" he asked, annoyed.

Brustin looked mildly sheepish – but only mildly – and walked back to join them.

"Look, I know you don't like SSA Joyner," Rossi continued. "That's fine, I get it, but we're here to do a job."

Brustin huffed, his hands shoved firmly into his pockets. "Have any of your people ever been cops?" he asked, clearly certain that he was going to hear a negative and be able to snark at them.

Derek narrowed his eyes. "Chicago," he told him. "And Pearce was a cop back in London."

 _With Joyner_ , he added privately, conceding that reminding Brustin of that connection probably wouldn't help.

"Well, then you'll understand – I take it real personal when somethin' like this happens in my city," he told them. "I was a beat cop during the Son of Sam. This is worse. He's not just goin' after one type – he's goin' after everybody. And I need everybody workin' on this case, takin' it personally."

"You have that," Derek insisted, but Brustin didn't look impressed.

"We'll see."

0o0

She'd waited until Hotch had gone to check in with Prentiss and Cooper before slipping into Joyner's office. It was a pity, she thought, as the senior agent looked up, that she couldn't just cheat and make the blinds close themselves, ensuring privacy. Tempting as it was, she wasn't here to cause trouble.

"Agent Pearce," said Joyner, a little surprised. "Is there something you need?"

"I wanted to put your mind at rest about my involvement here," she said, simply. "While I'm here my focus will be entirely on this case."

Joyner sat back in her chair, a slight frown on her face. "By which you mean?"

"I left a lot behind when I left the Met."

Kate narrowed her eyes. "Yes, I have to say I was surprised that an elite team like the BAU would take on someone with your personal and professional history," she said, carefully putting down her pen. "Not to mention what must have been in the papers. A name like 'Valentine' must be difficult to live down."

Grace didn't say a word, partly because she had to agree. If DCI Lightfoot hadn't done a number on her file she wouldn't have stood a chance.

"Of course, they might not automatically connect it," Joyner reflected. "Given…" She waited for a few moments and when Grace didn't take the bait, shook her head. "If someone had told me two years ago that we would be having this conversation and you would still be perfectly calm, I would never have believed you."

"Can I ask you a question?"

Joyner inclined her head slightly.

"Were you in touch with Hotch when I was working in the Major Incident Unit?"

"I was."

Grace smiled slightly.

"Why?"

"I – hah," she laughed. "It's just – it feels weird. One degree of separation and all that. I mean, I've seen old photos of them – Reid's hair was hilarious."

"Yes," said Joyner, thoughtfully. "There was a lot going on for you then, as I recall."

Grace bit her lip. She really didn't want to talk about this. "The shit began to hit the fan shortly after that, yes," she agreed, tiredly. "Are you going to tell them?"

"Do I need to?"

"Well, from my perspective I'd say 'no', but I do have to admit to a certain amount of bias there."

She held her breath. If Joyner decided to regale Hotch or the others with her earlier career she didn't know what she'd do. Move to the Caribbean maybe, or somewhere her past definitely couldn't follow her. Antarctica, maybe.

"Aaron tells me you're a good agent," said Joyner, after a moment.

Grace's eyebrows flicked up. That was a very favourable assessment.

"And, while I can't quite reconcile that description with you, he is generally a very good judge of character. How long have you worked at the BAU?"

"About fourteen months," she said, keeping her temper in check.

It was getting more difficult, and Joyner knew it. She was testing her, trying to see if Grace really had a handle on things.

"And you've worked with that team all that time and _not_ mentioned the Eldritch Branch?" Joyner asked, incredulous.

"Would you?" Grace asked, sardonically. "Much as I love those guys, I can't say we were ever really greeted with anything other than derision. It would be like admitting I had an alcoholic uncle who sits on his porch and takes pot-shots at UFOs."

"One might say your reputation was earned," said Joyner, pointedly.

"Not – and let's be clear about this – not all of it," said Grace, flatly.

The comment had come out rather more acidly than she had intended, but there it was. If you push hard enough, you will eventually get a reaction. Kate regarded her for a moment, then sighed.

"I need all the help I can get on this case," she said, heavily. "And from what I recall, you were a decent DS, despite your choice of assignment. We need to present a cohesive front here, especially while the NYPD are being difficult. This will, of course, all change if I feel for a moment that you have stepped outside your remit."

Grace nodded; she hadn't expected anything less. "So, no funny buggers, then?" she asked, with a twist to her mouth that might be mistaken for humour.

"Not if you can possibly help it," Joyner told her, shortly. "I realise this might be a tall order for someone who has in the past acted as though rules are things that happen to other people."

Grace bit her tongue. "With respect, Agent Joyner, _I_ never broke the rules," she said, darkly. "Not while I was on duty."

"Then you won't have any problem replicating that behaviour here," said the other woman, sharply. "As far as I'm concerned, you are just another resource."

"Well then, at the risk of being accused of sounding a bit kinky, feel free to use me as you see fit."

She turned to go, managing to slip back out of the office before Hotch rounded the corner and went back in. Spencer, who was perhaps not as absorbed in his geographical profile as he possibly could have been, did a good impression of a man who hadn't been watching his friend and the regional Field Office team leader not quite arguing.

He gave her a conciliatory sort of smile. "So I've got the transport network marked," he told her, gesturing at the board. "Would you read me the locations of the crimes?"

Grace allowed him a small smile of her own. With his eidetic memory, he didn't need her to read anything aloud. He wanted to keep her mind off whatever it was he thought was bothering her. It was kind of sweet.

"I will do anything you ask of me. Where do you want me, Doctor?" she asked, picking up the files one of the New York office agents had delivered.

"I'll take you anywhere you like," he shot back in a low, tart, flirtatious voice that Grace hadn't known he possessed, and then frowned, as if he hadn't intended to say that at all.

She just about managed not to grin, trying to ignore the little thrill she had felt at hearing that tone.

"How about right here on the desk?" she quipped, as saucily as possible, her hand resting lightly on the table.

Spencer did try not to laugh, but wasn't terribly successful. He turned back to the board.

"God, I'm sorry – I am so bad at this," he coughed, colouring beautifully.

She hopped up on the table behind him and patted his hand, laughing. "You are, but I appreciate the effort," she told him. "You know the worst part?" she sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. There was no point either of them pretending that the conversation she'd just had with Kate Joyner hadn't happened. "I still like her immensely."

0o0

"Well, this guy's definitely not afraid to get up close and personal," Morgan remarked, scanning the area.

"Or visible," JJ added.

"When you watch the tape he ducks his head the second he steps off the train," Rossi observed.

"So, he knows when he's being filmed," said JJ.

"Well, we've had glimpses, but the descriptions have been sketchy," Brustin told them. "Some people said he was a light-skinned black man, Asian, Puerto Rican – basically every homeboy in the city."

"Ballistics were the same for every shooting?" Morgan asked.

"Yeah. We checked the records back ten years, that gun's never been recycled," Brustin replied, finally beginning to sound like he was invested in their help.

".22s aren't exactly the weapon of choice these days," Morgan mused.

Rossi nodded. "Unless you're Israeli Intelligence," he qualified. "It's what Mossad uses for all its political assassinations."

"All I know is, this guy's organised," Morgan reflected, looking up at the CCTV system above the platform. "He studies the cameras, carries a gun that's easy to conceal. He knows what he's doin'."

0o0

Phase one of the geographical profile was complete and Grace had gone to find Cooper and Emily to begin phase two, stopping by a vending machine for a bottle of water on the way. It wasn't nearly as hot as some of their recent cases, but New York had a sort of dry, dusty heat to it that hurt her throat. It reminded her of London, in some ways – that strange, sooty grime that seemed to climb into your skin when you rode the tube. New York had a different quality to it, but still the connection was there.

London seemed to be haunting her today, dogging her steps. It wasn't just Joyner's presence, or the familiar attitude Grace had grown used to catching back there. There were lots of little things, tipping the scales of her memory back to England.

"We're going to need records over the last six months for any arrests for gun violence or gun possession in any borough _except_ the ones where the shootings have taken place," Spencer told Cooper.

"Uh," said the detective, squinting at the map. "I don't get it."

"We're trying to narrow down his point of origin," Grace explained. "Somewhere we can start tracking him down from."

"Uh – he won't strike where he lives," Spencer added.

"What makes you so sure?" Detective Cooper asked, perplexed.

"It's anti-geographical profiling," Emily told him.

Cooper's eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

" _Now_ it's anti-geographical profiling?" he asked, clearly lost. "Come on – and you wonder why we're so sceptical."

Grace and Emily chuckled. It did kind of sound like mumbo jumbo when you first heard it.

"This unsub's organised," Emily explained. "He strikes at the same time every day, he knows where the cameras are placed – that means he's doing his own pre-surveillance."

"A need-motivated killer operates within his own comfort zone," said Spencer. "An organised killer with some other motivation would make sure to strike outside that zone."

"Not where he lives," Cooper concluded, nodding in understanding.

"Exactly," said Emily. "Unfortunately, that means that every other neighbourhood in the city has a reason to be terrified."

0o0

It was a businessman this time, grabbing a bite to eat between meetings. He had been less than ten feet from the hot dog vendor who had sold him his lunch, in the middle of the sidewalk on one of the busiest streets of New York.

This son of a bitch was fearless.

Derek nodded to Brustin and Cooper, who were heading back from the tape at the other side of the road. The NYPD had closed the entire intersection, probably managing to piss off the entire city. Morgan was a little proud of them.

"Uniforms are roundin' up witnesses," said Cooper. "Doesn't seem like anyone got a clean look."

"It's over in a flash," Derek said. "He's probably gone before anyone even notices what's happening."

"By that point he's already in the crowd," Pearce observed, frowning at the line of onlookers beyond the tape. "All he needs to do is get out of sight of the nearest cameras and pull his hood down, and then he's just another passer-by."

"Is this what it felt like during the Son of Sam?" Joyner asked.

Brustin nodded. "First we realised if the violence was truly random then there was no way of stoppin' it," he said, disconsolately. "Seems like this guy has figured that out."

"No violence is truly random," Pearce murmured, thoughtfully. "This is systematic."

"What do you mean?" Cooper asked; Pearce looked up at him, apparently surprised she had spoken aloud.

"The victimology doesn't matter – it's as if they're just convenient targets – but the locations do. Never more than one attack in each borough, each one in busy, well-travelled areas, more and more in the sight of one of the cameras… there's a pattern here," she said. "We're just not seeing it yet."

Derek nodded at the nearest CCTV unit. "With the placement of that camera, odds are all we're gonna get is the back of his head," he said.

"Let's not be too quick to decide what we do or don't have," Joyner admonished.

Derek stared at her for a moment, taken aback; coolly, she strode over to the corpse to talk to the coroner.

"Ooh," snarked Brustin. "The Duchess of Work has spoken."

He clicked his teeth before he and Cooper sidled off, too; Pearce stepped away to call Reid and Emily to update them.

Derek turned to Hotch. "You wanna tell me why I'm catching attitude from her?" he demanded.

To his surprise, Hotch sighed, shaking his head a little. "FBI brass has made it clear to her that if she doesn't bring this case home she's going to be reassigned," he said. "And you are the top of the list to replace her."

Derek raised his eyebrows, astonished. He'd never made any noises about leaving the BAU – he didn't even want a promotion. Life was good right now, he was where he wanted to be, doing what he wanted to do with the people he wanted to do it with.

"You're kiddin' me," he exclaimed.

"You shouldn't be surprised," Hotch told him, simply. "You're good at your job, people notice that."

Both men spared a glance for Kate Joyner, who was glaring at the inside of the ambulance.

"What happened to the Bureau patting itself on the back for stealin' her away from Scotland Yard?" he asked.

"I don't know," Hotch admitted. "The politics here are different. And – you can see – she doesn't pull punches."

They reconvened by the ambulance, where Rossi was holding an evidence bag.

"Six murders and he's finally communicating with us," the older agent remarked, passing the bag to Hotch.

"What's that?" Cooper asked, peering into the huddle.

"That's a tarot card," said Derek, as Pearce gave a low whistle. "Death."

"Isn't that a little on the nose?" Cooper mused. "I mean for a psycho?"

"Psychos come in all shapes and sizes," Pearce replied.

"So we think this guy's into spiritual garbage?" Brustin asked.

The look Pearce gave the veteran detective spoke volumes, much to Derek's surprise. He knew her area was the occult, but he wouldn't have pegged her for someone who put their trust in fortune-telling. Maybe it was the generalisation that had annoyed her.

"Well, if he is he certainly doesn't know tarot," Hotch remarked. "The Death card doesn't actually signify physical death. It's more of a transformation from one place to another – a job promotion or a marriage."

Joyner looked the card over and then thrust it towards Pearce, expectantly. There was an awkward silence for a few seconds before she took it.

"I'm not sure I can add anything," she said, frowning down at it.

"Well, I mean it's up your alley, this sort of thing," said Joyner. "Right, Goose?"

Pearce blinked a couple of times. It seemed to Derek that she was doing some serious thinking about the contents of her next sentence.

"I'm sorry," she pronounced, meeting Joyner's gaze with almost deliberate care. "Sometimes a tarot card is just a fucking tarot card."

"Pearce," Rossi admonished, with a raised eyebrow.

She hadn't spoken loud enough for her voice to carry to members of the public, but as a rule Pearce kept her coarser language under wraps unless she was tipsy, extremely pissed off, or at home. Clearly, she and Joyner had some history that neither of them were comfortable with. At this stage, it was difficult to tell if what had to be an old nickname had been an attempt at solidarity or a thinly veiled insult.

Whichever it was, Grace didn't respond further; instead, she passed the card to Brustin without further comment. The bad atmosphere hadn't gone unnoticed and Cooper, the self-elected peacemaker of the group, cleared his throat.

"So, if he's not tellin' us he's into fortune tellin', what's with the card?" he asked.

"The DC Sniper left the exact same card at one of his scenes," Rossi elaborated.

"So this unsub must see himself in that role," Joyner surmised. "He's thriving off creating a panic."

He was right, Derek reflected: even the cops looked edgy today; the crowd behind the tape radiated anxiety.

"He's capitalising on people's fears," Grace remarked, looking around. "The Son of Sam's not far from anyone's mind right now." She nodded rather coolly at Joyner. "Like Whitechapel and Jack the Ripper."

"Mmm," the other woman agreed. "Sometimes the past is hard to shake."

Pearce glowered at her, as if this comment had been directly aimed at her.

"More importantly," Rossi interceded, "he studies other cases. He's telling us he knows we're here."

0o0

It was dark by the time they got back to Federal Plaza, but it didn't seem like anyone had gone home. Grace had to hand it to the locals, they weren't letting up.

Emily, JJ and Reid were waiting for them when they stepped out of the lift, poring over the CCTV footage.

"What've we got?" Hotch asked, as the rest of the team joined them.

"This is the latest shooting," JJ told them as Emily hit play.

"This was the previous murder," she said, pointing to a second window. "Can you see anything weird here?"

"He sprints off in one and walks calmly in the other – entirely different demeanours," Morgan remarked.

"Six kills in, his behaviour should be set," Rossi observed, frowning deeply.

"Split psyches?" Grace wondered aloud.

"Look at this," said Reid, leaning closer to the conference phone. "Uh – Garcia, are you still there?"

" _Would I ever leave you?"_ she quipped. _"Okay, I did a digital analysis rendering on the shootings where we have footage. Now, the first two were inconclusive, but the last two I found something tres weird. Your calm, walking type? He is about six-one, but your sprinter is, like, five-nine, five-ten tops."_

"Shit," Grace hissed, as the rest of the team processed this.

"We've got more than one unsub," Hotch realised, surprised.

"So," said Rossi, once they'd all had time to adjust. "We have more than one unsub, what does that tell us?"

"Most teams stick together," said Reid. "Uh – Ng and Lake, the Krays, Bittaker and Norris. They don't usually kill separately."

"Like the kids who took Jamie Bulger, or Ian Brady and Myra Hindley," Grace observed. "They feed off each other. This feels more like a small group."

"Could be some kinda gang initiation," Morgan suggested.

"Well, gangs'll kill you if you encroach on their territory, not random people all over the city," Emily argued.

"I'll co-ordinate with the gang task force," JJ announced. "Make sure we have an overview by morning."

"Do you think we have enough for a working profile?" Joyner asked as JJ departed.

"Broad strokes," Rossi nodded.

"Dave, you and Reid talk to the agents here," Hotch instructed. "Morgan and Prentiss, brief the police as each shift comes on duty tomorrow."

Grace frowned, wondering why her name had disappeared from his list.

"I think we should get out on the streets," Morgan remarked.

"Agreed," said Grace.

There was little else they could do from Federal Plaza now, anyway.

"I brought you here to create a profile," said Joyner, making that fact feel like a decided 'no'.

"Which we can give in the morning and then they can share it with the afternoon shift," Morgan reasoned.

"We've allocated every extra man we have," Joyner argued. "This is New York City. It's not like a few more people are going to blanket the city."

"I understand it's a long-shot," Morgan told her.

Grace glanced at Rossi, who was watching Morgan in a puzzled sort of way. His manner was still calm, but it was most unlike him to carry on like this on someone else's turf.

"But these guys, they hit at mid-day. We could target ingress and egress to specific neighbourhoods, stops – Fourteenth, Fifty-Second, Fifty-Ninth –"

"Morgan – Morgan," Hotch interrupted. "It's not your call."

There was an awkward sort of silence for a few seconds; this time, Agent Joyner broke it.

"I'd like to join you in the profile," she said. "If that's not stepping on your toes."

"No problem," said Rossi, his eyes still on Morgan.

0o0

They'd packed it in around ten o'clock. There wasn't a great deal left to do now until morning – and the unsubs didn't attack at night. For a few hours they could relax, recharge and hit the case again hard in the morning.

The hotel was still relatively busy, despite the state of panic invading the whole city.

"Here, look at this," said Prentiss, picking up a copy of the evening's newspaper. "The late edition doesn't miss a beat."

They stared at the headline: _'Execution Style – Fear Collapses on the City'_.

"JJ," said Reid, unexpectedly pulling their attention from the article.

He nodded to the seat in the lobby behind her; Will LaMontagne Junior hooked the strap of a travel bag over his head and got to his feet. He'd obviously been waiting for them. Grace narrowed her eyes at that. The detective wasn't the kind of man who did things for no reason.

Everyone else relaxed slightly, grateful for the change of emotional pace.

"Will!" JJ exclaimed, surprised.

"Hey – I took a shot and flew to DC, but when it didn't work I figured a train ride to New York was only a few more hours," he explained, affably.

"Detective," said Hotch, and shook his hand.

"Look, I'm sorry for showin' up like this – I know you're workin', but um…" he looked at JJ. "I can't stand you bein' on this case and me not bein' near. Not with what's goin' on."

Grace caught her breath. She'd heard conversations like this before. JJ shook her head slightly, looking trapped.

"Is there a problem?" Hotch asked, studying his media liaison carefully.

Will gave JJ a look that plainly said, _'Seriously? You haven't told them yet?'_

"Um…" JJ winced, turning to the team at large. "I'm pregnant."

"Oh my God, JJ!" Emily cried. "Congratulations!"

She enveloped her friend in a hug, beaming, as Hotch enthusiastically shook Will's hand again.

"I've asked JJ to marry me," he said.

"Will," JJ admonished, suggesting that that particular detail hadn't quite been ironed out yet.

She accepted a hug from Reid and then another, stiffer one from Grace, who couldn't entirely shake the strange numbness the possibility of a new addition to the BAU family had elicited. Her head felt echoey and loud; she stepped back, out of the way.

"We'll give you both some privacy," said Hotch, still (incredibly) smiling.

JJ caught him before he got in the lift and everyone else tactfully congratulated Will. Grace, who couldn't currently seem to move, stayed put, not entirely listening.

"Hotch," JJ called after him.

"JJ, you could have told me," he insisted, sounding strangely flustered.

It was hard for women in jobs like theirs to announce a pregnancy, particularly if it meant stepping back from being on the line.

"I know," she said.

"Because I understand if you need to take some time…"

Grace forced herself to grin and gave Will a quick hug – the latest in a series – before they left the two expectant parents to their own devices.


	16. Climate of Fear

**Essential Listening: Empire State of Mind (Part II) Broken Down, by Alicia Keys**

 **0o0**

They hadn't been able to stop giggling, which was very sweet, Dave felt. He'd caught up with the team beside the lift, where they had broken JJ's news. Even Hotch had been giddy. Reid and Pearce were quieter, for some reason. Dave wondered if it might be jealousy on Reid's part – Aaron had told him he and JJ had gone out at least once in the distant past, and something like a baby could be a bit of a shock to the system, even after you'd given up all hope or inclination for a relationship.

Pearce, on the other hand, was probably still absorbed by whatever it was she and Joyner had been into in London.

"Do you want to go for a drink?" Reid asked, abruptly.

Almost everyone made noises of assent, except for Pearce and Hotch.

"I need to go over the paperwork for JJ," said Aaron.

"Sorry, I'm bushed," Pearce apologised. "I think I'm just going to crash."

Although he was always happy to spend time with his colleagues, Reid wasn't usually the one to initiate it. It seemed to Dave that the kid had mostly been aiming his invitation at Pearce, but he smiled, let it go. Emily however, buoyed by JJ's exciting news, didn't want to take 'no' for an answer.

"Oh come on _Goose_ ," she teased, nudging Pearce in the arm. "Just one drink."

Dave could have sworn the temperature in the elevator physically plummeted.

" _Don't_ call me that," Pearce retorted, very nearly snarling. There was an uncharacteristically ugly expression on her face. "Ever."

She stepped out of the lift and stalked away without turning back.

"I'm – I'm sorry…" said Emily, stunned, but Pearce was already halfway down the corridor.

The team watched her go, nonplussed. It was a while before any of them spoke.

0o0

Grace was curled up around a book and a mug of tea when Hotch knocked, though she hadn't really been concentrating on the words.

She knew it was him, even though it was just past one a.m. and all of them should have either been drinking downstairs or pretending to sleep. He had an 'official' knock.

With a sigh, she put the book to one side and opened the door, tea still in hand.

"Hey."

"Hey," he replied, looking worryingly stern. "Can we talk?"

Tempted to ask him to come back tomorrow when she wasn't wearing pyjamas and would be better at forming proper sentences, she shrugged and stepped back, dreading what he might say, or ask, or already know. Earlier in the day she might have fought tooth and nail not to have this conversation, but right now she felt weary and defeated. JJ's happy announcement had hit her very close to home (though of course she was delighted for her friend); she felt ragged and off-centre, ill-prepared for negotiating her past with her boss.

"Drink?" she asked, as he closed the door. "There's tea, decaf coffee or a selection of the world's smallest spirits. I'd make a joke about seeing the dead, but I'm too tired."

Hotch didn't answer, but he got out two glasses and ice, and rummaged in the mini-bar for two tiny bottles of _Jamesons_. Grace left him to it. This hotel seemed to think all its guests needed a table and chairs – presumably assuming that despite the manifold attractions of the Big Apple, most people would opt to entertain themselves in their own rooms. She sat cross-legged in one of the chairs and finished her tea, waiting for him to establish himself in the other.

He pushed one of the glasses towards her; it was oddly informal – almost something Lightfoot might have done, though she suspected the following conversation might be conducted with more elegance. She took it, draining the dregs of her tea.

It was fascinating watching Aaron Hotchner think; he rarely spoke unless he had considered exactly what he was about to say (at least, in a professional context), and just before he did he would acquire a certain kind of poise. Having worked with him for over a year now, Grace could see it coming.

"I spoke with Kate Joyner earlier today," he began, contemplating the glass in his hand for a moment. "And she expressed certain… concerns about your place on this team."

He paused, inviting her to comment, but she didn't feel the need to. Not yet – not until she knew where this was going. Hotch sighed.

"I need to be able to trust you, Grace – when we're out in the field we all put our lives in each other's hands."

Grace moistened her lip slightly, considering. "Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?"

"Not at all," said Hotch, but Grace wasn't sure if he meant 'no' or 'not as yet'.

"Well then…" she played with her glass, swirling the ice around the bottom of it.

"I trust Kate's judgement," he said, slowly. "But I also trust yours. Convince me."

"How?" she asked, after a moment. "Always assuming that the last fourteen months are insufficient."

Hotch smiled slightly.

"You are a good agent and your behaviour has been exemplary, but I think we are both aware that you are presenting a very carefully curated persona to the team," he said, gently. "Not a façade as such, because most of it is you, but… a more professional, less… _occult_ version of yourself than perhaps the people in London got to see."

Grace's head tipped lightly to one side. She watched her friend's face for a full minute, trying to gauge what to say – or even where to begin.

"This conversation is, of course, unofficial," he said, possibly guessing that this question was contributing to her silence.

It was at this point in proceedings that she realised the man was no longer wearing a tie. That one accessory was so much a part of him that noticing the sudden lack of it was disconcerting. Perhaps he had taken it off like a metaphorical hat – a conscious signal that this was all off the record.

"I was always professional, but… I left a lot behind when I resigned from the Met," she said, at last.

"Including your younger self?" Hotch inferred.

Grace sighed, looking down for a moment.

"I went through a lot in the last couple of years before I came to America," she said, carefully. "Some of my less common skills meant that I was fast-tracked through the ranks, particularly with doing the masters at the same time. I was young and… not very tolerant of people who didn't live up to my professional standards. The officer Kate Joyner would remember was arrogant, ambitious, quick, meticulous, impatient, troublesome and probably a bit smug," she told him, sadly. "I had a temper and I… there comes a point when you stop trying to fight people's expectations."

"That's why you left."

It wasn't a question. She looked up at Hotch, who was watching her closely – not quite like an interrogation, but more with a sort of open frown.

 _Convince him_ …

"Part of it, yes," she nodded, taking a sip of her whiskey. "I grew up – my reputation didn't. Sometimes it doesn't matter how different you are if people can't forget who you were. I'm still young, and coppers talk," she concluded, unhappily.

Hotch nodded slowly. "You had informal anger management training," he observed, which made Grace laugh.

Nothing ever got past him.

"Yes."

"Mandatory?"

"Strongly recommended."

"It wasn't in your file."

He sounded disappointed in her; she didn't blame him.

"I'll admit I was quite relieved about that." She frowned. "You know, the first I knew about my files being redacted was when you told me about it."

He didn't immediately respond, but he seemed to accept it, at least. Grace was giddily happy that he hadn't asked her _why_ it had been strongly recommended.

"'Goose?'" he asked, tipping his head forward.

"Mmm, I need to apologise to Emily for snapping at her… I was out of line."

She took another sip of her drink while Hotch maintained a level gaze, silently inviting her to continue.

"My old team," she began, at last, "the Unconventional Crimes Unit, were more or less universally reviled. People were never happy to see us – the nature of the cases we took on were disruptive, chaotic… Whenever we turned up it meant you were in for a long, convoluted and probably implausible case – and, worse still, you would have to investigate it with _us_.

"We were the oddballs of the force, really – otherwise capable officers who had chosen to disappear into a department that was considered the equivalent of career suicide." She frowned. "Most of us wandered in from other units, where our more unusual skills were noted and unwelcome – one or two, like me, were cherry-picked straight from Hendon."

Grace gave him a wan smile.

"Suffice it to say, someone who can take a statement from the dead felt right at home at the UCU. Anyway, no one likes talking about weirdos like us – particularly in front of the public – so we got a few unofficial names in the Force. Some kinder than others."

Hotch raised his eyebrows. Grace was aware that she was rambling and frowned, trying to bring her explanation back on track.

"Our nick – our station – is on Redcross Way in Southwalk," she explained. "Technically it's called Penrose House, but I doubt there's more than twenty people in the Met who have ever heard it called that. Just about everyone called it Cross Bones, after the cemetery across the road.

"There's very little left of it now, but it used to be much bigger. They built a goods yard over most of it. In the Victorian period the graveyards were overflowing – Cross Bones is packed to bursting, and it was old even then. Southwalk was outside the City of London, you see, which was controlled by the crown. It had different rules…

"Apt for us," she chuckled, flashing a smile. "And for all the things that were banned in the city at the time, like theatre, bear-baiting, cock fighting, prostitution… which was the Bishop of Winchester's chief source of income. He designated Cross Bones for the women who worked in his stews – they couldn't be buried in normal graveyards, you see, for fear of 'contamination'."

She rolled her eyes.

"It filled up with outcasts, over the years – orphans, street women, the poor, the dispossessed, John and Jane Does from the hospitals and asylums… Cross Bones has become a bit of a symbol of lost people these days. There's a sort of shrine of ribbons and photographs on the gates – people go there to remember, leave a token…"

She thought of the ribbons she had left there over the years; the tiny shoes she'd fixed to the top rung, among the witches and tinsel and dream catchers.

"Anyway, the prostitutes of Southwalk were called 'Winchester Geese' after their landlord – 'goose' being one of the numerous euphemisms for 'whore' at the time," she told him. "Some smart-arse at Scotland Yard decided that since we were used by every other department and then turned away as soon as we could be, and given our location, that the term suited us. It stuck."

She chuckled again in self-derision. "I was always quite proud of it – even though it wasn't intended as a compliment," she mused. "It set us apart – we weren't like anyone else."

"And now?" Hotch asked, quietly.

She gazed at the melting ice in her glass, finding it difficult to look up. "It reminds me that I never will be."

It was the sound of the little fridge door opening that finally wrenched her eyes back up. Hotch refilled her glass with another miniature bottle of scotch. He sat back down and fixed her with an earnest, piercing stare.

"Since you joined the BAU I've come to rely on your advice and your frankness," he said, gently. "I've seen you fight for the other members of the team and support them through their darker moments – whenever they are and whatever it takes. You are considerate and clever, but most of all, you are kind. I know I can speak for the rest of the team when I tell you that you have become a valued colleague, and a valued friend."

He paused for a moment, and Grace did her best not to simply burst into tears then and there.

"The person you described: arrogant, ambitious, smug – I don't recognise her at all."

0o0

Grace watched the agents assemble, hanging back until she absolutely had to step forward.

Despite Hotch's assurances, she still felt brittle and hollow, though she would be hard pressed right now to distinguish whether this was because of JJ's pregnancy or the swarm of memories provoked by Joyner's presence. Reid materialised beside her like some kind of preternatural sentinel, somehow managing to appear without making any noise. If she didn't know him better, she would have suspected the use of magic.

Sometimes she wondered whether she wasn't destined to spend her life suspended between the mundane and the miraculous.

Spencer touched that part of her back that he associated with giving her comfort; Grace frowned. It felt like the warmth from his fingers was coming from a long way off. If they hadn't been in such a crowded room, she might have reached for him – but the edges of their friendship were blurred enough as it was, and there were too many people here. She didn't want to make things awkward for him.

Bless him, he had been hovering all morning, aware of how Michael might be haunting her. Hell – everything was haunting her today, like Cross Bones and the whole Metropolitan police force had superimposed their images over New York.

Apparently conscious that his first attempt at consolation had failed (and because they were at the back of the room, largely obscured by a press of agents not currently paying attention to anyone else), Reid gave her an awkward, one-armed hug.

Bolstered by this, and by the knowledge that if anyone wanted to make trouble for her they'd have to get through the BAU's skinny, gentle genius, she made her way to where Rossi, Hotch and Kate Joyner were calmly assessing their audience, Reid close behind. As if their appearance was some kind of unspoken cue, they fanned out, ready to give the same profile that Morgan and Prentiss were providing over at the NYPD.

"Okay," said Hotch, effortlessly calling the room to order. "Let's start with what we know. For these unsubs, killing is not personal. There's no sexual, vengeful or financial component."

"This is why we think there's something bigger at play, here," Grace said. "Nothing here is accidental – it's all part of a greater pattern that we're just not seeing all of yet."

"We could be dealing with a team," Rossi proposed. "These murders are reminiscent of the case of the DC snipers, where there was actually one intended victim."

"John Muhammed wanted to kill his ex-wife, but he knew if he did he'd be the prime suspect," Reid explained. "So he created a spree to mask his primary motivation."

"Muhammed and Malvo also left a Death card at one of their scenes, just like this unsub," said Joyner.

"Because of this, we believe our unsubs have studied that case, and maybe others," Hotch told them. "They're opening a line of communication. That means they're organised and intelligent – and they want our attention."

"We know they've studied the placement of the surveillance systems well enough to avoid detection," Grace added. "Which tells us at least one of them is sophisticated and possibly tech-savvy."

"Uh, most teams have a dominant and submissive member," Reid elaborated. "Because of the relative intelligence of these unsubs and the fact that they stick to a set time pattern we believe at least one of them has a steady job. They're patient and dedicated to the pattern they've established."

"We've asked the police to canvas their precincts, check businesses that open or close around the time of the shootings," Rossi told them. "We're hoping someone will be able to identify a father and son or co-workers who fit the dominant-submissive profile."

One of the agents on the floor raised her hand; Reid raised his eyebrows, inviting her to speak.

"And what's the other theory?" she asked.

"Uh… It's less likely, but these murders could be some sort of gang initiation," he replied, reaching for the stack of overview files JJ had somehow managed to produce between arguing with Will over names and liaising with several local task forces.

"We've asked the police to put every available undercover on the streets," Rossi added.

 _They're like ghosts, these guys,_ she thought. _Moving through the city like smoke…_

"If that's the case, then these murders make them feel powerful," she reasoned. "Like they're part of something bigger – something important."

Grace looked away. She remembered that feeling all too well, a side effect of being in the exclusive, separate world of Cross Bones. Sometimes she couldn't blame other departments for hating them. Sometimes.

"These are all known gang members in Manhattan," Reid announced, handing the overviews out. "Most of them are out of Chinatown and Clinton. We'd like you to study these and keep an eye out for anyone who looks suspicious."

"I'll also be detailing a number of you as well," said Joyner. "Stay behind when the agents are finished and I'll give you your assignments."

0o0

The phone that had been reserved as Garcia and Bartleby's private line rang and within seconds Joyner and the BAU were bearing down on it. Hotch got there first:

"Hotchner." He listened intently for a few seconds. "Does it look like it could be one of our guys?"

"What's goin' on?" Morgan asked.

"We've got eyes on one of them," Hotch told him, over his shoulder. "The subway platform at fifty-ninth and Lex."

"Fifty-Ninth? We could have been right there!" Morgan complained, annoyed.

" _He's got a gun!"_

Garcia's voice was barely audible over the handset, so they all craned closer to listen in; someone hit 'speaker'.

" _Oh my God,"_ Bartleby exclaimed.

" _He shot her!"_

"Where the hell are the police?" Joyner demanded, angrily.

"We can't be everywhere at once." Grace rubbed her face, feeling the loss of another person they just couldn't save.

"This is Kate Joyner with the FBI," said Joyner, into another handset. "We have a murder suspect on the subway platform at Fifty-Ninth and Lex."

" _He's getting away!"_

"Garcia, can you get eyes on him above ground?" Rossi asked, urgently.

" _He's heading west on Fifty-Ninth Street…"_

"If he makes it to the park, we've lost him," said Kate.

Bartelby confirmed the worst: _"We've lost the visual."_

"Are the police on the scene?" Rossi asked.

" _Negative."_

Grace pinched the bridge of her nose as Kate sank onto one of the desks opposite, despairing.

"We coulda had that guy!" Morgan snapped, clearly accusing Joyner of causing this particular death.

"Even if we were on that platform, odds are he would have moved on to somewhere more isolated," she told him, sounding exhausted.

"Maybe, but it was worth takin' a shot!"

"Morgan, it's not that simple, you know that," Grace responded, but he wasn't really listening.

"We had every available man on the street!" Joyner insisted.

"And I suggested to you that you used this team –"

"Second guessing doesn't do us any good right now," Hotch interrupted.

Grace nodded, glad to hear a voice of reason.

"Hotch, how am I supposed to look these cops in the eye and tell them we're actually here to help them?" Morgan demanded.

"It's not your call," Grace hissed, feeling oddly protective of her old colleague.

Besides, this wasn't helping anyone. Hotch waved her down and she fell silent, uncomfortable.

"We're here to present a profile, that's what we need to do," he said.

"I said to put us at express stops – Fourteenth, Forty-Second, Fifty-Ninth – and that's exactly where they hit!"

"It's not your place to have this discussion," Hotch chided him.

"My 'place'?" Morgan demanded, looking incredulous.

Grace shifted from foot to foot, wanting to beat some sense into him – or just go and hide in the supply cupboard for ten minutes, whichever might end this ordeal sooner.

"You need to back off," Hotch told him.

"We've got seven bodies, man!"

"Which is exactly why need to stay focussed," Hotch snapped.

"Focussed?" Morgan asked, in disbelief. He closed the gap between him and his boss and glared him right in the eye. "From where I'm standing, all your focus is on _her_."

Even Rossi grimaced; both Grace and Joyner rolled their eyes. She had never seen Hotch look quite as angry as he did right now.

"Take a walk, _now_ ," Hotch insisted, somehow managing to sound deeply menacing in quite a quiet voice.

Morgan backed off, astonished, and headed for the lift while Joyner stalked off to calm down somewhere less embarrassing. Hotch glared at the paperwork in front of him, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.

"Divide and conquer?" Rossi whispered, in Grace's ear.

She nodded and set off after a singularly unhappy ex-British cop, feeling a strange sort of solidarity with her, safe in the knowledge that Rossi could more than handle Morgan. She found her by the kitchen area, swearing comprehensively at the kettle.

"You know, I always thought that sounded better in a British accent," she said, strolling up beside her.

Kate huffed, angrily pulling a mug out of the cupboard.

"Ignore him," Grace advised, stuffing her hands into her pockets and trying to make herself sound sincere. "Funny thing about the FBI – we just can't seem to get enough of everyone else's imaginary sex lives."

The other agent kicked the fridge shut.

"Look, it's no fun when people decide to discuss your personal life –"

"Well, you would know, wouldn't you?"

"– particularly when it blatantly isn't true."

Joyner's shoulders sagged. She dropped her teaspoon into her mug, looking defeated.

"He's right." She shook her head. "Not about Aaron. We should have had that guy."

"No," said Grace. "Like you said, he would have picked somewhere else. The trouble with FBI agents is that we _look like_ FBI agents. They would have made us and moved on."

Kate turned around, leaning against the counter.

"My instructor at Hendon always said stranger murders were the hardest ones to crack," she remarked, and for a moment she looked exactly the way Grace remembered her: sparky and indomitable. She shook her head. "Who would have thought, two flat-foots from the Met taking on killers who have the whole of New York City on edge?"

"Oh, I don't know," Grace sniffed. "Besides, I've been assured that the top three percent of graduates are destined for greatness."

Kate laughed. "And we both looked each other's scores up when we first worked together."

"Obviously."

She joined Kate in her propping up of the counter. The reasonably well-oiled machine that was the New York FBI Field Office rumbled on around them, comforting and unstoppable.

"Sometimes I wonder whether leaving Scotland Yard wasn't all a big mistake," Kate admitted. "You know they'll have my arse for this."

"Nah," said Grace. "Someone's got to keep an eye on this lot…"

Kate snorted. "And on the BAU?"

They shared a smile.

"And not even a decent bloody cup of tea in sight," Grace added, hoping this helped.

"Actually…" Kate said, with a glint of mischief.

She pulled open the drawer between them, where a box of _Yorkshire Gold_ occupied pride of place. Grace stared at it.

"I may faint."

0o0

Dave walked into the bar at the hotel, allowing himself a slight smile when he saw Morgan sulking at the bar. The team thought they were all so complicated, but in his experience his fellow agents were some of the easiest people to profile. They all spent so much time around one another that their coping mechanisms were almost second nature to their friends.

In times of stress, Hotch called his son; Dave got out the scotch; Garcia reached for the nearest brightly coloured something; Emily put her headphones on; JJ threw herself at the stack of new case files on her desk; Reid gravitated towards Pearce; Pearce inhaled tea…

Morgan went to a bar.

"I know," said Morgan as Dave approached, without looking up. "I was outta line."

Dave leaned on the bar next to him and watched the younger agent contemplatively for a moment. He was hunched over a beer, sulking – more angry at himself than at anyone else. He had crossed a line and he knew it.

"You get too emotionally involved sometimes," Dave told him. "I know the feeling."

Morgan sighed.

"It just felt like Hotch was takin' her side," he complained, sounding much younger than he really ought.

Dave frowned, surprised at this attitude.

"There are no sides here."

Morgan shook his head, annoyed at himself again.

"I know."

He thought about the rumours that had been bubbling under the surface since they'd set foot in the New York Office. Pearce was right about law enforcement and gossip. Maybe that was part of what was eating Morgan.

"The word is they have an eye on you if SSA Joyner gets canned," he said, testing the water.

Morgan raised an eyebrow at him.

"People talk," Dave told him, answering his unspoken question. "But if she were to get fired it would be because we didn't solve this case."

Morgan's eye's narrowed dangerously. He turned more towards him – almost challenging him.

"Rossi, I hope you're not saying you think I _want_ her to fail."

"Of course not," he said, dismissively. "But I've never seen you push a superior like that before."

Morgan relaxed slightly, conceding that point.

"So, would you take the job?"

Morgan looked away, seeming suddenly weary.

"I don't know. It might be nice to finally be the one makin' the calls."

"And dealing with the politics of running a field office?" Dave reminded him, with a grimace. "That doesn't seem like you."

The younger agent sighed.0

"The BAU wears people out, man." He shook his head. "Look at Gideon. That man was _the_ best, and in the end he simply ran away. I mean, Hotch hasn't even thought about crackin' a smile in over a year – that man has to take a personal day just so he can have a conversation with his own kid. And what about you?" he asked, darkly. "How many times you been married?"

Dave snorted. Much as he might have wanted to, he couldn't blame the BAU for all of it. Morgan was tired and frustrated, worried that this was going to be the roadmap for the rest of his life. Dave had seen it before. He glanced down at Morgan's untouched drink.

"I get it," he said, smirking. "But I'll make you a deal: if I think you're losin' it I'll pull you out myself. But right now, I see someone who wants to get back on the job."

He paused as Morgan squirmed, trying to find a reason to refute that.

"Or is there some other reason why you haven't even touched that beer?"

He clapped a hand on his shoulder, making to leave – confident that Morgan would follow.

0o0

By the time they got back to Federal Plaza, Hotch and Joyner were in her office, reviewing the footage again. Derek looked around, but it seemed like the rest of the BAU were out on the streets, canvassing.

He cleared his throat as they walked in.

"Listen, um – about before," he began, but Joyner waved him off.

"You spoke your mind," she said, recognising an attempt at an apology. "I respect that."

Pleasantly surprised, Derek nodded, knowing that Hotch would correctly assume the apology was directed at him, too.

"JJ, Reid, Pearce and Prentiss went to the crime scene with the detectives," he told them.

"This is the first time they've killed two days in a row," Rossi observed. "They're speeding up."

"Your analyst went over the latest footage," Joyner said. "This is a different shooter from the last two."

"There's three of them now?" Rossi asked, surprised.

Derek frowned. That changed everything.

"Who the hell are these guys?" he remarked, frustrated.

"I want you all out on the street tomorrow," said Joyner.

She met Derek's gaze head on; apology accepted. He nodded.

"What are we missing?" Rossi asked.

"When we first saw this case, what did it remind us of?" Hotch pressed.

"Son of Sam," said Rossi.

"Same kind of unsub," Hotch agreed. "Random shootings, not need driven, no sexual component –"

"Except that Berkowitz admitted that he would return to the scenes of his crimes days later to masturbate," Derek pointed out.

"Exactly," said Hotch.

Joyner nodded, following the direction of their thoughts.

"So, you're thinking if the dominant unsub has a similar MO…"

"We get Garcia to study the footage and see if the same person keeps returning to the crime scenes in the days following the shootings."


	17. Old School

**Essential listening: Fallen Empires, by Snow Patrol**

 **0o0**

They'd seen the others off just after the briefing, when the subway system was just beginning to fill up with commuters (who everyone was mentally referring to as potential victims), then got stuck in with the profile. Brustin had appeared after his morning briefing at the NYPD, like a harbinger of gruffness.

Joyner, who had been frowning at the maps alongside them, had seen him coming, decided that she didn't have the space in her head to deal with him right now and nudged Grace in the ribs. The two Brits had vanished together for ten minutes, as if they were in cahoots. Spencer had shared a puzzled look with Rossi, who shrugged.

If they'd worked out their obvious issues then things were looking up.

Grace had reappeared shortly after, carrying several cups of coffee. The three men stationed at the incident boards accepted them gratefully – even Brustin cheered up slightly. Grace perched on the desk in front of the boards, following the lines of the map and humming lightly under her breath.

"You're disturbingly chirpy all of a sudden," Spencer remarked, feeling faintly unnerved (although it did him good to see it).

"Real tea."

"Yeah, but –"

She waved the mug at him, interrupting. " _Real tea._ "

Reid shook his head, amused and despairing. "You are _so_ weird," he informed her fondly, his heart feeling inexplicably lighter.

She stuck her tongue out.

"Eh, Bambini," said Rossi, gently calling them to order.

It wasn't long before they were all absorbed in the information on the boards, searching for the missing link – whatever it was that would change a sketchy working profile into a powerful diagnostic tool.

"If they're not getting off on the fear," Grace pondered, mostly to herself. "Then what is it? A weapon? A means to an end?"

"Detective," said Rossi, eventually, pulling them all out of their ruminations. "The Son of Sam. That case still pisses you off like it was yesterday."

"Yeah, it does," Brustin admitted.

"There've been a lot of killers in this city," Rossi mused. "Why him?"

Brustin thought for a moment before answering: "He was laughin' at us and we couldn't catch him," he told them. "They only way we grabbed him was through a parkin' ticket."

Rossi nodded slowly, a contemplative frown on his face.

"What're you thinking?" Spencer asked.

"He hasn't contacted us again."

"So?" asked Brustin.

"So, why not?" Grace explained.

"This doesn't fit." Rossi held up the Death card. "These unsubs are organised. They do pre-surveillance, they strike in the heart of the day – and yet they haven't done anything to seek out media attention. And –" He looked down at the evidence bag in his hand. "And then this."

"You said it was to tell you they know you were here," Brustin reminded them.

"We profiled that he was trying to open a line of communication, create panic," Rossi explained. "If that was the case, his correspondence should escalate."

"After they left their Death card, Muhammed and Malvo demanded an ATM card with a – a million dollars and a bank account, just to taunt the police," Spencer added, thinking quickly. "Berkowitz wrote rambling letters about hunting in the city, describing himself as a monster…"

"And if the 'Dear Boss' letters are to be believed, our boy Jack sent letter after letter telling the police and the press that he was cleaning up the city – in his own bloody way," said Grace, thoughtfully.

"These unsubs are more disciplined than that," Rossi said, turning to stare at the board. "The fact that they haven't contacted the press tells me that this was private." He frowned at the Death card. "It's only for us."

"So, what does that mean?" Brustin asked.

"You think it's a distraction?" Grace frowned.

"They're ramping up to something," Rossi surmised. "And they want us to know that they're watching us."

Spencer watched Grace's expression change; she took the card out of Rossi's unresisting fingers.

"They see _themselves_ as the agents of change…" she said, in a hollow tone. "You know, in 1993 the IRA shut down transport links to most of the south of England and paralysed the tube by sending out a series of coded bomb threats. About three hundred thousand people were stranded and the whole of London effectively shut down without anyone firing a shot… Just because people were _afraid_."

 _That's what we're missing,_ Spencer realised, suddenly. _Oh no…_

"If you saw all of these traits completely out of context, what would be the first profile to pop into your head?" he asked.

Rossi and Grace shared a speaking look. Rossi licked his lips. "Who do we have out on the streets?"

Spencer hurried to the nearest phone. "Garcia, do you have eyes on everyone on the team?"

0o0

"So, uh… if we're undercover maybe we should – uh – act like a couple," Cooper suggested.

Emily laughed. She liked Cooper – he made endlessly patrolling the subways of New York City significantly less tedious.

"Are you still working this tired sexual tension angle?" she asked, entertained.

"I don't know, you're the fortune-teller," he joked. "You tell me."

"You wanna know what profiling is, really?" she asked.

It was about time he got taken down a peg, but in the kindest way possible.

"Why do I have a feelin' I'm gonna hear no matter what I say?" he asked.

"It's just noticing behaviour," she told him.

"And I'm about to hear about mine, is that the deal?"

"Okay," said Emily, content to play the game. "When we first met and your partner was sarcastic, and said 'Yes ma'am', you instinctively reached for your detective's shield – as if you were protecting it."

Cooper looked taken aback; he hadn't even known he'd done it.

"That tells me you don't like him disrespecting the chain of command," she continued, Cooper's expression suggesting she'd hit the nail on the head. "But you're also loyal, so you didn't say something to him. I'd say you were military – probably an officer. Praise in public, censure in private, right?"

Cooper chuckled, turning away. She had him, and they both knew it.

"You're right handed, but you have two different coloured pen marks on your left hand," she pointed out. "I'd guess you have a toddler at home, just learning how to draw. You don't wear a ring and you were quick to flirt with me, so you're happy to let people think you are a player."

They both laughed.

"But if I took you up on it, you would run for the hills because you love your wife, and you would never actually cheat on her," she finished.

"Wow," Cooper exclaimed, impressed. "You might just solve this case yet."

Together, they strolled up the stairs to street level, grinning.

0o0

Focussed on trying to get an eye on the disparate members of her team, Penelope was surprised when Bartelby tapped her on the arm.

"Okay," said the NYPD tech. "This is not good."

"What's going on?"

"I'm doing what you asked," she explained. "I'm lookin' at the footage to see if I see the same person comin' back to the crime scene in the days after the shootings."

"Right."

"So, I find the camera with the widest angle on the scene."

"So you don't have to sift through hundreds," Garcia nodded.

"Exactly! But –" Bartleby tapped urgently on the control keys for the camera; nothing happened. Garcia felt her pulse rate jump. "Someone's hacked in!"

0o0

Emily scanned the street for anything suspicious. It was like looking at a forest to find one leaf with a red dot on it. She shared a tired look with Detective Cooper.

Then they heard the gunshot.

It was unmistakable, even with the sound of New York City drowning most things out.

"Garcia," said Emily, urgently, into the radio on her watch.

" _I'm on it, I'm on it… Uh – Sixteenth and Broadway. He's running east on Sixteenth!"_

"He's headed our way," Emily realised.

She and the detective set off at a run, hoping to head their unsub off at the pass. A young man in a dark grey hoodie was running through the crowd towards them. He made them almost as soon as they saw him, sprinting off in the opposite direction. They gave chase, the pavement thudding dully beneath their feet, their guns out and up.

He led them west along Sixteenth, charging down the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians. The unsub turned into an alley, disappearing from view. Cooper, who was closer, shouted at him to stop – no sooner had he reached the mouth of the alley when a shot rang out.

Cooper fell to the ground.

Emily – her heart in her mouth – skidded to a halt by the entrance to the alley, her gun trained on the shooter; she didn't hesitate, firing two rounds into the man's chest.

He dropped like a stone. She approached, quickly, but cautiously, and removed his gun before heading back to Cooper. He was lying on his back, bleeding, his right hand pressed tight against a wound somewhere in the ambiguous region between his chest and his shoulder. A small crowd was already forming around him.

"Cooper?" she shouted. "Garcia, we've got an officer down – Sixteenth, west of Union Square! Let me see," she instructed, peeling Cooper's hand back. The man looked terrified. "You're gonna be okay. Garcia, can you see us? We have an officer down!"

Cooper coughed, eyes wide with pain and terror. Emily pressed her hand to the wound as hard as she dared.

"Stay with me!" she urged. "Cooper, you're gonna be fine!"

0o0

The ambulance was already pulling away when they arrived, a worried and bad-tempered Brustin accompanying his partner to the hospital. The bullet, according to one of the EMTs, had missed Cooper's heart, lungs and major blood vessels. He had been very fortunate, though he was unlikely to feel like it when he woke up after surgery.

Having reassured herself that Emily was alright (there was little else on her, Spencer's or Rossi's minds before they reached the scene), Grace positioned herself on the sidewalk, looking up and down the street.

"What?" asked Emily, shakily.

"This is the single worst place to run in a pursuit," she said, darkly. "On the whole street."

"Panic?"

She shook her head. It felt more deliberate than that.

"Are you okay?" Morgan asked, as he and JJ hurried towards Emily.

Their friend looked dazed, almost, still reeling from the shock.

"Is he gonna make it?" JJ asked.

"I don't know," said Emily, slowly. "I think so." She bit her lip. "He lost a lot of blood."

As one, they all turned to look at the unsub, who was still just barely alive. A couple of paramedics were tending his wounds, but the prognosis didn't look good.

"He's not going to live to tell us anything," Rossi complained, ruefully.

"Any ID on him?" Spencer asked.

"No."

"This is not good."

Grace shook her head, pensive. It rather confirmed their theory.

"I shouldn't have had to shoot him," Emily murmured, watching the paramedics.

"Emily, he shot a cop," Morgan insisted. "You did what you had to do."

"No – no, not that," she said, slowly, running her eyes over the chaos of the scene. "I mean, he – he was ahead of us. He would have gotten away, but he stopped and waited…"

"So, he felt trapped, figured he'd shoot his way out?" JJ guessed.

"I don't know," said Emily, doubtfully.

Morgan looked at his friend. "Tell me about his behaviour," he instructed. "Was he acting panicked? Was he winded?"

Emily shook her head.

"His hands were steady… His eyes were dead calm." She screwed up her face. It just didn't make sense. "I mean, these guys have been hypervigilant, organised. They do pre-surveillance! I mean, what are the odds they would shoot somebody two blocks from where me and Cooper are standing?"

"What, you think he deliberately shot someone where he could be caught?" JJ asked, stunned.

"What if he did?" Emily proposed. "What if they chose this spot _because_ we were here?"

"What are you thinkin'?" Morgan asked, deadly serious now.

"He had no ID on him – he waited until we caught up to him," she reiterated, urgently. "He was strangely calm. It's almost like suicide by cop!"

"Why?" Morgan pushed. "Why would he do that?"

"I don't know," Emily frowned, looking like she felt a bit helpless. "Maybe to make us think everything was finished."

Morgan nodded, a dark look on his face. "We need to walk back through this profile."

"We think we might have a serious problem," said Rossi, as Hotch and Joyner arrived on scene.

"What is it?"

"We have multiple unsubs. They're disciplined. They're using counter-surveillance," Rossi listed. "They know the FBI movements. There's a hierarchy."

Grace watched realisation dawn across their unit chief's face.

"What does that usually equal?" Rossi asked.

"Terrorism," Hotch replied, as if finally everything was beginning to make sense.

"And how much do you want to bet they're watching us right now?" Grace remarked, nodding at the CCTV camera across the street.

0o0

The field office was practically empty now; it was late and anyone who wasn't assisting the NYPD or out on assignment was briefing other departments, or liaising with Homeland Security. Since 9/11 there was nothing quite like the word 'terrorism' to put the wind up people – particularly here. Those agents still in the office were tense, but focussed.

They had a recognisable pattern now – something they could work from.

"So, how does this work?" Morgan asked, as the team huddled around the board.

"The murders simulate a bombing," Reid explained. "The others watch and gauge police response time."

"By which point, they know when to bring in a second bomber," Morgan guessed.

"The goal is always to take out a first round of civilians, followed by a second wave of emergency responders," said Joyner.

"It's crazy, but it's ingenious," Spencer reflected. "They get a practice run and if somebody catches the shooter then they just have a murderer – the cell is compromised."

"It's lo-fi," Joyner commented. "Smartest way to plan for a terrorist event."

"Creating panic ensures they see the most urgent response short of a bombing," Hotch observed.

"Old school," Grace mused. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it."

"So, there's been seven different shooters?" JJ checked, astonished.

"Having followers do the shootings ensures they're willing to kill or be killed for the cause," Rossi explained, grimly.

"It fits the profile," said Emily. "There is something larger at play, it simulates a gang initiation…"

"Especially if they're home grown and they haven't had a chance to prove themselves," Hotch agreed.

"Reid, show them the thing on the map," said Grace, tiredly nodding at the board.

"I think they're targeting points of entry," he said, gesturing at the map. "All the murders have been near a bridge or a tunnel."

"Holland Tunnel, Midtown Tunnel, Manhattan Bridge…" Emily counted out.

The assembled agents eyed the map warily.

"If bombs went off emergency response would shut down any ability to get in or out of the city," JJ observed. "It's like people would be trapped on the island."

"Just imagine the chaos that would cause," Grace remarked.

"Keep in mind it's still a theory," Hotch cautioned. "Just like any profile."

They all startled as Morgan's phone went off; he put it on speaker.

"Talk to us, Garcia."

" _We got a problem. I went through and checked all four thousand, four hundred and sixty-eight cameras. They hacked into the surveillance system. They've got footage of every crime scene – they've been watching since the beginning."_

The team gasped. Their 'theory' was sounding ever more likely.

"How could we not have caught that?" Hotch asked.

" _They were smart – it wasn't system-wide. You had to check each camera individually."_

"This is from _every_ crime scene?" Emily demanded.

" _I'm afraid so. They hacked into one camera at every scene."_

Garcia sounded _pissed_. Grace didn't blame her, this was her and Bartleby's professional pride on the line.

"Thanks Garcia."

Morgan hung up.

"So much for theory," Rossi quipped.

They stared at one another for a moment, processing the mental u-turn they were being forced along.

"We need to hit the ground running," Joyner declared, getting to her feet.

"I'm gonna head to the hospital," Emily announced, grabbing her jacket. "I'll check on Cooper and brief Detective Brustin."

"Good," said Hotch. "Dave, will you go talk to the Commissioner and Morgan, you brief Homeland Security."

"JJ and I'll talk to the Port Authority Police," Reid suggested, already moving.

"Pearce, I want you to make a circuit of the crime scenes, see if there's anything we might have missed," Joyner said, catching her eye. "And ignore what I said about 'funny buggers'."

Grace nodded.

 _One paranormal sweep of the crime scenes coming right up._

"Kate and I will go talk to the Mayor and we'll meet back here as soon as possible," said Hotch.

"The one advantage that we have right now is that they don't know that we know they're watching," said Joyner, as the team started scurrying out.

0o0

Spencer watched his boss urgently calling ahead, waiting for JJ to collect her things. At least now they had something they could do – the lack of momentum had been driving them all crazy.

"Agent Jareau!"

He looked up to see Shelley, Agent Joyner's energetic PA jog over to JJ and hand her a package.

"Thanks…"

He could tell from her expression that she hadn't been expecting it – and who it was from.

"From Will?" he asked.

"He's…" she stared at the letter. "Going home to New Orleans tonight…"

Spencer winced. That could mean anything – JJ looked stunned. Hopefully a good kind of stunned.

"Okay?" he asked.

"He – he doesn't wanna be in the way," she said, looking a little tearful.

Spencer looked down. He wasn't sure if he needed to comfort her or not – or how to even begin. JJ pulled something out of the package – a detective's badge.

"He's quitting his job?" he asked, shocked.

He scanned his friend's face, but instead of more tears he saw a mixture of hope and astonishment. Handing in your shield seemed like a very strange romantic gesture to Reid, but JJ seemed delighted.

"Do you need everyone in the field?" she asked Hotch, who looked at her for a moment.

"Reid, you can go brief the Port Authority Police by yourself – JJ, you run point from the office," he said. "Why don't you go back to the hotel, tell Will what's going on and then get back here straight away."

He waited for her by the elevator, where she flung her arms around him, unexpectedly. Caught off guard, he hugged her back, baffled.

"He's going to move to DC," she whispered in his ear and laughed, looking almost dazed with happiness.

"JJ…" Spencer said, understanding. "That's great!"

"It's – there's so much to take in!" she hissed, sounding thrilled.

"Wow… You're gonna be a mom!"

"I can't even believe it!"

They got in the elevator, both glad that there was a little good news still to be had, even at a time like this.

0o0

Detective Brustin got into his car with an air of grim determination.

He hated leaving Cooper at a time like this, but really the guy was in the best place – it wasn't as if he could do anything more for him. A terrorism attack in his city, though?

It made Brustin's blood boil.

Agent Prentiss had briefed him (after getting any news she could on Cooper) and they'd headed back towards their respective vehicles. The plan was to meet up at the NYPD, where Agent Morgan was briefing the task force.

He had to hand it to Prentiss, if she hadn't been there, Cooper would have been a goner. He waved as he passed the SUV and she nodded her acknowledgement. Thank God for GPS, or he'd be chauffeuring the entire Behavioural Analysis Unit across the city.

He turned onto the next intersection and checked his rear view mirror. She hadn't even set off yet. Scowling, he made the turn. She would catch up.

0o0

Garcia had talked the entire way up in the elevator and all the way to the coffee shop. Bartelby was impressed. She wasn't what the NYPD tech had expected of the FBI, but she was obviously good at her job. So good that her boss had called and ordered both of them to hit the nearest coffee shop and eat something before they passed out or went crazy.

Lisa had been ready for the break. The knowledge that someone had got inside _her_ system was a personal insult.

"Ready?" Garcia asked, toting an entire bag of food and two enormous coffees.

Lisa grinned.

As partners in crime went, Garcia was pretty hardcore. She followed her back to the FBI issue Yuke, chuckling.

0o0

To say that the Commissioner had been unnerved would be an understatement, but Rossi had to hand it to the man, once he'd been convinced of the reality of a clear and present threat to his city he had started to move heaven and Earth to stop it in its tracks.

He had promised every resource at his disposal to the investigation.

Dave had left him barking orders into his phone and slipped back out into the night. He climbed into the car and shook his head. None of their cases were much fun, but this one was just plain exasperating.

0o0

Spencer left the Port Authority Police to set their crisis procedures in motion. Even as he left the building people were running around like their pants were on fire, shouting into radios and generally looking grateful that their higher ups had insisted on so many drills.

Feeling were running high and he suspected it would be a bad day for the unsubs if any of them crossed paths with the Port Authority in the next few days. It would be good to turn the tables on them, he felt, after so many murders.

He hurried back to the car, glad that JJ had opted to go back to the hotel. He didn't like the idea of her being out in the field now she was pregnant. In many ways she was like his big sister and her happy news had brought out the protective side of his nature.

 _No_ , he thought, opening the door. _She's better off out of it right now._

0o0

"You know, you're doing fine," Aaron commented lightly as he and Kate stepped out of the Mayor's office.

Kate paused and gave him a winning smile.

"I'm feeling a good deal more confident of that now you and your team are on the case," she admitted.

"We'll get them," he assured her, as they headed towards the car.

"Oh, I know we will. And we'll look good doing it."

0o0

Grace walked slowly along the edge of the platform where the tourist had been shot.

It was all very well asking to look a crime scene over for anything weird (and she very much appreciated the trust Kate was placing in her in asking), but all these murders had taken place in high-traffic areas. In each case there were _decades_ of weird stuff.

None of them the _right_ decade.

She sighed, hurrying back up the steps and out to where she'd parked the Yukon.

She'd been on duty for the most recent round of terror attacks on the London transport system in 2005; she remembered keenly the chaos and the terror that day, every street and tunnel clogged with smoke and dust, people bleeding, people screaming…

The response in the days that followed had made her proud to be British – Londoners were peculiarly resilient, stoic creatures when they were under threat. Of course, the later, appallingly racist backlash had been hideous to watch.

Better all-round if they could stop this happening at all.

0o0

Morgan scrubbed a hand over his face, frustrated. Lighting a fire under the ass of every officer in New York had been unpleasant. Most of them remembered the last time a terror attack had gone down. Almost all of them had lost friends there.

He sighed and climbed into the SUV, resigned to being unpopular – at least until this terror cell was shut down.

0o0

When they described the explosion, the news reported that it had been small and contained, and that emergency personnel were responding – which wasn't entirely true.

What the news _did_ get right was that the explosion had been a few streets from Federal Plaza, and seemed to have come from a black SUV, parked at the side of the road…


	18. Mayhem

**Essential Listening: Miserere Mei Deus**

 **0o0**

 _Never think that war, no matter how necessary, nor how justified, is not a crime._

 _Ernest Hemingway_

0o0

Dave stared up at the screen in the NYPD Command Centre. The reporter was waxing lyrical about suspicious incidents and car bombs. Something about it just didn't sit right with him. A car bomb in an unconfirmed location?

They needed more information.

"David!"

He looked up as Reid ran out of the lift, his frown deepening. Reid had never called him 'David' before. Ever.

"I heard on the radio!" he exclaimed, a note of panic in his voice, holding up his cell phone. "I tried the others, but –"

"The cell phone system is crashing," Dave told him, shaking his head.

"A car bomb?" Reid asked, as they both turned back to the TV. "Did they say where?"

"No. Can you recall every site where the shootings occurred?" he asked.

Reid frowned: "Uh – Hell's Kitchen, Murray Hill, Lower East Side, Chinatown," he reeled off.

"Alright, then if our profile's correct and all eight murders were testing response times we're looking at eight suicide bombers who are about to hit every one of those locations." He watched as the kid processed this information. "Now, call Homeland Security – tell them to pour troops into all of those sites."

"Actually, if we're correct there'll be sixteen suicide bombers," he said, horrified.

 _What? Why?_

"Sixteen?" Rossi asked.

"Yeah, we predicted that they'll hit the second wave of emergency responders, also."

" _Uh – breaking news now, we are just getting an update –"_

The newsreader caught their attention, both men's heads whipping around – they needed all the information they could get, now. Anything to stop such a wide-scale attack in its tracks.

" _The bomb is now reported to have been inside an SUV. A black SUV."_

The two men stared at one another, suddenly fearful. It couldn't be…

His heart plummeting, Rossi pressed the internal phone button and called Garcia.

They had to know.

" _Agent Rossi? We heard there was some kind of explosion."_

"Where are you?" he asked, as Reid looked on, frozen in horror.

" _I just walked into the CCTV Command Post."_

"Can you see anything?"

" _I literally just walked through the door, sir."_

"We got on the news it was an SUV that exploded – a black SUV within blocks of the Federal Plaza," he told her, and heard her breath catch.

" _Oh God."_

"Now, do you have eyes there?"

" _I – uh – yeah. I've got, like three hundred cameras right there, gimme a sec –"_

Dave glanced at Reid, willing Garcia to move faster. The kid looked terrified – which was about the same as he felt.

"I'm here with Reid, but I don't know where anyone else is," he told her, urgently. "And Garcia?"

" _Yes sir?"_

"Find them!"

0o0

Her heart in her mouth, Garcia put her phone down, afraid to even think about what might have just happened.

 _Focus_ , she told herself. _They need you._

"Okay, Lisa?" she said, putting in her ear piece and marshalling herself. "I'm gonna need every feed of every camera for twenty blocks concentrically out from the Federal Plaza. Get this explosion from every angle that you can and then back those feeds up."

"You got it," she said, picking up on the urgency in Garcia's voice.

"I gotta call the rest of my team."

Morgan first; it would always be Morgan first.

" _Yeah – I'm still here!"_ he announced, as soon as he picked up.

Garcia let out the breath she was holding.

"Yes you are, thank God."

It sounded like he was driving.

" _I'm almost back at the Federal Building, what the hell's goin' on?"_

"Alright, we're – we're goin' over the closed circuit footage right now."

" _Who else have you checked on?"_

"You're the first," she told him. "Rossi and Reid called me."

" _Alright, well, keep me on the line while you check on everyone else."_

Garcia nodded, though she knew he couldn't see her, and called Emily.

" _Is everyone okay?"_ she asked, before Garcia could speak.

"I've spoken to Rossi and Reid, and Morgan's on the line," said Garcia, suppressing another sigh of relief. "Stay on the line – I'm gonna try Grace!"

She hit the next number on her speed dial list, praying that another of her babies would pick up. Grace answered on the first ring, her voice stressed and taut.

" _Garcia, I know – something happened,"_ she said, urgently. _"Something bad. The others?"_

"I have Morgan and Emily on the line," said Garcia, over the other agents' reassurances, wondering how the hell Grace always seemed to know something was up.

" _Where are you?"_ Emily asked.

" _Just south of Union Square,"_ said Grace, sounding a little calmer. _"Got diverted away from Federal Plaza. People are going mental out here – everybody's panicking."_

" _Emily, where are you?"_ Morgan asked.

" _Uh – I'm following Detective Brustin to one of the NYPD's Tactical Incident Command Posts."_

"One of them?" Garcia asked.

" _Yeah, after 9/11 they decentralised, they had way too many eggs in one basket on that day."_

"Has anyone talked to JJ?" Garcia asked, over the sound of sirens.

" _Uh, she was headed back to the hotel,"_ Emily replied, which didn't sound like a 'yes'.

"In an SUV?" Garcia asked, hating the images that were beginning to crowd into her head.

" _I think so."_

 _Oh God no. No, not JJ! Not now! Not with the baby!_

"Stay with me while I dial her number…"

Separately, the four agents listened as JJ's answerphone kicked in. Abruptly, the message cut out, just going dead.

" _What was that?"_ Morgan demanded.

"It went dead mid-message," said Garcia, desperately hoping that didn't mean what she thought it meant.

Somewhere south of Union Square, Grace swore.

" _Try her again!"_ Emily cried. _"She's probably back –"_

There was an electronic beep and Emily's phone went dead.

"Emily?"

" _Garcia, what –"_

Grace's phone cut out, then Morgan's. The line started making unhappy disconnected noises.

"Derek?" she asked, desperately. "Derek? I just lost all contact with my team!" she exclaimed.

She was absolutely NOT going to cry.

"I found it!"

"I've never – I'm not going to let –"

"Garcia!" Lisa interrupted.

"What?" she snapped.

"I found the explosion."

0o0

Stars.

Bright and white in the dark night sky.

He stared at them, confused. He was sure that there was something he was supposed to be doing. From somewhere nearby, something was ringing faintly. He wondered if it was his phone.

Strange. Some of the stars were moving. He watched them for a moment – they seemed to be falling.

But stars couldn't fall, could they?

Frowning, Aaron reached up and touched one. It fell into his palm and crumbled. It wasn't a star at all. The flake of ashen paper, still smouldering along one edge, blew away like dust.

Aaron squinted up, the distant ringing intensifying. The sky was full of burnt bits of paper, floating erratically downwards like snow. He frowned. The window of the TV shop in front of him had been smashed inwards, small slimy trails of blood suggesting that someone was the worse for wear.

He shook his head, bemused, and six versions of him – recorded by the video camera the store's owner had set up to catch people's attention and broadcast back out – waggled their heads, too. It occurred to him that someone was calling him.

They weren't doing a very good job of it. They were far too quiet.

What was he supposed to be doing again?

He shook his head. He couldn't remember.

If there had been an explosion, he should have been on the ground – not on his feet. He stared blankly at the broken window, and then down at the blood on his hands.

 _That must have been me_ , he thought, his brain working slowly now. It felt dull, like trying to walk through treacle. _But how…?_

On the screens in the TV store there was a fire behind him.

Sluggishly, Aaron turned. Sure enough, across the street an SUV was extremely on fire, its on-board alarm system still blaring desperately, like it was crying.

Aaron stared at it, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Without warning, a young man appeared in front of him, his face full of concern. His lips moved, but no sound seemed to be coming out. Aaron peered at him.

What was the point of opening your mouth if no sound was going to come out? How ridiculous.

"Hey, are you okay?"

This time he heard him – though the sound seemed to be coming from a long way off.

 _Oh_ , he thought. _It's not his voice that's the problem – it's my ears…_

Still struggling to process – well – anything, he took a mental step back and let his training kick in.

"Sir?" the kid asked, worried.

"What's your name?" his training asked.

It was always important to know who you were dealing with. You never knew when you'd need to catch their attention or record their whereabouts.

"What?" the kid asked, apparently confused.

"What's your name?"

"Sam…"

"Call 911," Aaron told him.

Couldn't he see there was a fire?

"Yeah – yeah, I did!"

"Call 911, tell them there's been an explosion."

There was no other explanation, really. The SUV's door were hanging out of it like flailing limbs, blown out by the force of it.

"Sir, are you okay?" Sam asked.

His voice was clearer now, easier to hear. Aaron stared at him. He didn't know how to respond.

 _Of course I'm okay_ , he thought. _Why would you even ask that?_

"Are you a cop?" the kid asked, spotting Aaron's gun.

 _A cop?_

He frowned. No, he wasn't a cop – he was an FBI agent. He'd been walking down the street with Kate, hurrying back to…

His eyes fell on the burning vehicle.

 _Kate_.

"Call 911 and tell them…" He started staggering towards the car, but his legs didn't appear to be functioning properly. He felt himself begin to panic. "That a federal agent…"

The kid was asking him something, but Aaron didn't hear what. He ran towards the car, yelling his old friend's name.

"Kate! Kate!"

He stripped off his jacket, trying to get close enough to the car to see inside, ignoring that part of his brain that was insisting nothing human could have survived a fire like that.

"Kate!"

"911? This is the guy that called about the explosion!"

Another, smaller blast – probably just escaping air – pushed him back.

 _No. Not like this._

The seats looked empty, but since most of them were melted now it was difficult to tell if this were really the case. He started to look around for any evidence that she might have been blown clear, like he was.

He heard her before he saw her – a long, drawn out moan from further up the street. He sprinted over, abandoning his jacket to the flames, trying not to think about the long blood trail that ran up the centre of the street. She must have landed and been forced along the tarmac, scraping against it until she came to a halt – but she was alive.

"Kate! Kate!" he yelled, dropping to his knees beside her.

"My purse," she said, desperately. "I can't find my purse!"

She reached out for it, trying to scrabble her way back up; Aaron pushed her back.

"Shh – shh," he insisted, trying to hold her head steady in case her neck was broken. "Don't move."

"I can't find my purse!"

She looked around, urgently, which meant at least that her neck was probably fine.

"Shh," he said, trying to assess the damage. "I don't think you had one."

"I must have dropped it…"

She was rambling, not making sense – her brain fighting to get her through this, ameliorate the shock.

"Shh! Kate – Kate – Kate," he said, trying to get and hold her attention. "Stop trying to move."

She stared at him as he tried to figure out where the hell all the blood was coming from.

"Aaron – Aaron, what happened to you? What happened?"

"I don't know," he told her. "It must have been a bomb – an IED. I think it was an IED."

"An IED? I have to get up," she said, and tried to.

Aaron pushed her back as gently as he could.

"No, no – lie down – lie still. You need to lie still," he insisted.

A grimace passed over Kate's face.

"Am I moving my legs?" she asked.

"Shh – what?"

"Am I moving my legs?"

Aaron looked down. Her legs, though intact, stayed completely still, sprawled out on the concrete. God only knew where her shoes had gone.

"Am I moving my legs?" she demanded, sounding terrified.

He didn't know how to tell her – and it wouldn't help if he did, so instead he tried to focus on any other way he could help.

"I'm going to have to turn you," he told her. "And see where the blood is coming from."

"Do it!" she cried, steeling herself for the worst.

"Okay – it might hurt…"

She didn't weigh much – not even that much more than Jack. He balked at the sight of her. There was a gaping hole where her lower back should be, torn open by her trip across the road. He could see her spine, which looked mostly intact, and a vast quantity of blood.

"Sorry," he stammered. "Uh – okay – I'm gonna have to see…"

He stared at the mess, feeling helpless and lost.

"Are you okay?" Kate asked, sounding lightheaded.

"Yeah, I'm just going to need to – um… I'm going to have to see if I can just – pinch it off." He reached shaking fingers inside her back and found the common iliac artery that branch down through the body, supplying almost everything with blood and oxygen. His fingers slipped on it, rubbery and slick with blood as it was. He could feel it pulsing against his fingers. "Until they get here. I'm sorry, I know it hurts."

Kate gave a dry, horrified sob.

"No, it doesn't. It doesn't hurt at all."

She reached up to his arm, scared, clinging on to the nearest friendly body.

"Okay," he said, taking her hand with the one that wasn't holding onto a major blood vessel. "We're going to get you out of here." He looked up at the end of the street, where police cars and ambulances were beginning to appear. "They're coming. They're coming."

He let go of her hand to wave his free hand in the air.

"Officer down!" he yelled. _"Officer down! Here!"_

They seemed to be stopping at the next intersection. Too far away.

"Aaron," said Kate, quietly. "They're not coming. We told them not to – remember?"

 _First responders. Their secondary targets are first responders._

He stared down at his friend in horror.

"The first wave of responders are the targets," she told him, sounding unnaturally calm, given the circumstances.

0o0

Garcia watched the screen numbly as Hotch and Agent Joyner walked towards their SUV. The explosion ripped the car apart, tossing them both away like ragdolls.

"Oh my God!" she exclaimed, properly panicking now.

"They weren't inside," Lisa told her, grabbing her arm.

Garcia barely heard her – that was one of her babies out there, being blown up, maybe already dead!

"They –"

"Weren't inside," Lisa said again, firmly.

She stared at the other woman for a moment, seizing on that thought – anything that meant they could be okay.

"Right," she cried, in a very small voice. "Play it again!"

It wasn't any easier to watch the second time around.

"Move this camera!" she demanded, pointing at the screen. "I have to see where they ended – where they – where they are now!"

"This isn't live Penelope," said Lisa.

"Right," she said, realising she was panicking. They needed her calm. Hotch needed her calm. "Uh – get me another angle, we have to see what happened to Hotch and Kate."

Her mind, which had been fixed in a whirl of the words 'Oh God' and nothing much else for the last five minutes, suddenly switched back on.

"Wait!"

"What're you doing?" Lisa asked, as Garcia took over the keyboard, typing furiously.

"I'm going further back!" she explained. "That explosion looked like it came from _under_ the SUV, not inside it, so I'm gonna guess that bomb wasn't there when it was parked."

Lisa gaped, realising what she meant. They had a shot at catching one of these guys. She ran the tape back ten minutes, while Hotch and Kate were still in the building; a guy in a dark grey hoodie appeared from across the street and tucked something – the bomb – under the chassis of the SUV.

"That's him," she exclaimed, wide eyed. "The bomber… Uh – get me another angle at timecode 12.06!"

"Got him," said Lisa.

They both watched as he walked calmly away, coming to a halt behind a pillar.

"He stopped… Why did he stop?"

0o0

"Sam, you need to get out of the area," Hotch insisted, looking at the young man beside him.

Everything was taking too long. Kate was beginning to drift in and out of consciousness. He couldn't think.

"I just wanna help," said the kid, looking appalled.

"If you wanna help, get somebody down here," he told him.

Sam took off towards the line of emergency vehicles at the end of the street.

"Kate, I need to you wake up," he said, jostling her shoulder as gently as he could. "Stay with me. Stay with me."

His friend opened her eyes and shivered. To his surprise, she giggled – a real, high-pitched girlish giggle. It seemed strange and jarring given the situation.

"I feel cold," she told him, still giggling. "It's such a cliché! Isn't it – I f-feel cold. Like in the cinema…"

She was rambling, he realised. Another bad sign.

"You've lost a lot of blood," he told her. "I think I've got it stopped."

"Wait – wait, that's not right, is it?" she mumbled. "You say movies. You say movies, not cinema…"

Hotch licked his lips; she was going into shock and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Just try to relax…"

"Why – why would you have a different word? I should ask Pearce – ask Pearce what she –"

Abruptly, something changed – Kate started to shake violently, grimacing with pain. He had to do something, or she was just going to bleed to death right here.

"Alright, if they can't get down here, I'm going to try to lift you," he said, fighting down a wave of panic.

Sam ran back into view, looking worried. "They just told me to get behind the barricades!"

"I need you to help me," Hotch said, sternly, over Kate's jumbled moans. "I'm going to try to lift her."

He waited until Sam had a good grip on her shoulders.

"Alright, on three – one, two, three!"

They started to lift, but his fingers slipped. Warm blood flooded out across his hand.

"No – no, I lost it, I lost my grip!" he cried, as Sam helped lower Kate back down. "I need to find it again – I need to find it –"

"She – she's bleeding," Sam stuttered.

Hotch fumbled in the torn flesh of her back, trying to get a purchase on the artery.

"Hang on, I think I got it, I think I got it!"

"She's not going to die, is she?"

Hotch shared a grim look with the kid. This was probably the first time he'd seen something like this. He looked down: Kate had lost consciousness.

"Kate, stay with us please," he mumbled. "We're here! Please!" he yelled, waving at the barricade.

They had to come.

"Please! We're here! Someone!"

0o0

He found the barricade easily enough and added his departmental Yuke to the back of it. He ran over to the nearest member of SWAT and presented his badge.

"Hey! Hey, who's in charge here?"

"Captain Warner," the man said, letting him through.

The captain was briefing his men, maintaining the precautions they had set in place to protect first responders.

"Let's get this area cleared as soon as possible," he said. "We got people down there."

 _Damn right you do_ , thought Morgan.

"Hey, Captain Warner – I'm Agent Morgan," he interrupted, flashing his badge. "Hi – I'm lookin' for Agent Hotchner. Aaron Hotchner!"

"Go back to the Federal Building," the other man instructed, calmly.

Warner didn't even look at him, simply focussing dead ahead. He wasn't about to let anyone through – orders were orders.

But that just wasn't good enough for Derek, not when a friend's life was on the line. He got right in the other man's face.

"I am not about to do that," he told him, firmly.

"Get outta my face, or I'll have you bodily removed, agent."

He had been about to respond when he heard Hotch's voice – yelling from the other end of the street.

" _Please! We're here!"_

"Hotch!" Derek breathed, and made to run right through the barricade.

A member of SWAT had an automatic weapon in his face before he got more than two feet.

"Hey! The area's restricted!"

Derek turned to Warner. "That's my boss down there!" he told him, angrily.

"My orders are what they are."

"I don't give a damn what your orders are!"

"I get it, agent," said the captain, heavily. "But we've been told by you responders are the targets. So, until the blast site is cleared, no one goes in!"

Derek looked him over, profiling fast. The man was only doing his job, but…"You're Marine Corps, right?" he said. "Right?"

"Please – go back to the marshalling point," the captain asked, though he obviously felt for him.

"I'm not doin' it!" Derek shouted. "I'm not just gonna let my man lay down there like that!"

Distantly, Hotch's voice drifted over, making both men turn towards his desperate pleas.

" _Someone! Dammit, we're here!"_

"Never leave a man behind – you _do_ remember that, don't you?" Derek demanded.

" _We're here! Please!"_

Warner glanced in Hotch's direction and nodded.

"Go."

Derek didn't wait for him to change his mind. He sprinted down the road as hard as he could.

"Hotch! Hotch!"

0o0

"Fast forward," Garcia instructed.

Lisa hit the button and they watched as the unsub lurked behind the pillar a little way from the SUV, waiting for Hotch and Joyner to approach it.

"He watched!" Garcia gasped, horrified. "That son of a bitch watched! Get me another time code –" she recited the numbers, her eyes never leaving the screen.

She glared at him, scrabbling for the phone with her other hand.

"That's the unsub," she cried. "And he's walking right up to Hotch."

0o0

"Hotch!"

Morgan skidded to a halt beside them. He must have bullied the SWAT team to let him through.

"Morgan, we gotta move her," he said, grateful for the other man's presence.

"They're not lettin' any ambulances down here until they clear the scene!" he told him. "Kid, you gotta get behind the barricades, let's go!" he barked, looking at Sam. "Go!"

"Go, Sam," Hotch told him.

"Good luck."

He backed up and Morgan took his place, assessing the damage to the woman on the ground.

"Talk to me," he said. "Can we carry her? Hotch?"

"No!" he looked up at his friend, desperate. "Morgan, she's gonna bleed to death if we don't get her outta here – we gotta do _something_."

Morgan's cell rang.

"Garcia, I got Hotch!" he told her. "But listen to me – you gotta get somebody down here right away, you hear me? Right now!"

He paused; Hotch watched the expression on his face change. He braced himself, ready for more bad news.

"What? Are you absolutely sure?"

He looked past Hotch, in the direction Sam had run.

"Hotch," he said, hanging up. "The kid – he's the bomber."

Hotch looked away. That had to be their priority now. "Go."

He heard Morgan take off, sprinting away.

"Hold on Kate, just hold on…"


	19. First Responders

**Essential Listening: New New York, by The Cranberries**

 **0o0**

Aaron looked up as another ambulance tore around the corner, rolling up the street from one of the junctions away from the barricade. Feeling lightheaded as relief flooded his system, he shouted to the EMT that was running towards them.

"She's got an arterial bleed in her back and I'm doing my best to hold it closed!"

"You okay?" the paramedic asked, though his focus was immediately on Kate.

It was how they were trained to respond – you always went for the person who wasn't responding first. Generally they were the ones with the least time.

"I just want to get her out of here."

"Her pulse is weak and thready," said the paramedic. "I'm gonna need your help, okay?"

"Okay," he said, as the other man rifled through his bag. He looked around. "Is the area clear?"

"No. You were callin' for help and I couldn't listen anymore," the EMT admitted. "My partner was too afraid to come in here with me."

That was a hell of a risk to take. Not that Aaron wasn't grateful. He looked down at his friend.

"Kate, we're going to get you out of here."

She didn't respond.

"We're on our way outta here."

0o0

Spencer hurried back across the main lobby of the NYPD Command Centre. This was a hell of a time for the phones to go down. They couldn't even make internal calls, let alone get back in touch with Garcia (at least they'd been able to talk to her before the blackout rolled over). Add to that the fact that the cell networks were crashing under the weight of panicking residents and you had several law enforcement and emergency response agencies flying pretty much blind.

It was so convenient a communications blackout that it had to be something to do with the terror cell. Whatever they were intending to do, it was happening right now.

And five of the people he cared most about in the world were missing, and there had been a car bomb in a black SUV.

He hopped into the elevator, chewing disconsolately at his lower lip.

The worst part was not knowing where the others were, or if they were okay. He rubbed a hand over his face, frustrated. He was doing his best not to think about it, but it wasn't easy. In the instant the doors began to close, a flash of light from the front of the building caught his eye and he saw Grace stalk in.

He jammed his arm in the way of the doors and shouted; her head snapped around, her expression immediately shifting from tight control to some measure of relief.

For no reason he could fathom, his knees felt a little weak.

Grace half ran over to the elevator, paused momentarily as the doors slid closed behind her and then knocked the wind out of Spencer by throwing her arms around him. It was a good thing she did, because he had been about to do the same, and knowing his own clumsiness he suspected they both would have fallen over. Giddy with relief, he hugged her tightly, burying his face in her neck.

"I was in a conference call with Morgan, and Emily, and Garcia," she said, speaking quickly, into his coat. "It cut out, but –"

Spencer sagged with relief at that, several worries already removed.

"Rossi's upstairs," he told her, his voice rendered indistinct by her scarf. "We talked to Garcia before the phones went down."

Grace made a sound that could have been the word 'good', but he couldn't tell – nor did he care. He felt a lot more stable with her safe and warm and right _there_ , breathing in her tea and rose smell. He held her tighter and she responded in kind; he felt her fingers bunch tightly in the fabric of his coat.

She pulled her head back to look up at him. "What about Hotch?"

"No," he said, completely unable to let go of her. If he'd ever needed an anchor, it was now. "JJ?"

"Nothing."

They stared at one another for a moment, their fears restored and realigned. Grace's eyes were wide and scared, but were already regaining their usual ferocity. She was close enough that he could feel her heart hammering in her chest, making a chaotic racket with his own. Her face was flushed from running and some of the anger they both felt at anyone taking a run at their team. Their family.

For a fraction of a second, Spencer thought about kissing her; even just the idea of it made him dizzy, unaccustomed as he was to such powerful, visceral urges. Unconsciously, he moistened his lips – but then the elevator chimed to tell them they'd reached the right floor and she let him go, both of them stepping apart.

Together, they hurried across to Rossi, who grabbed Grace's arm, relieved.

"I was talking to Morgan, Emily and Garcia," she said, before he could ask. "But the call fell through."

"The networks are crashing," he explained. "The others?"

She shook her head, looking troubled.

"What can we do?" Spencer asked.

They turned to the board, which Rossi had been rearranging.

"These are stills from all the murder sites," he told them.

"Garcia had us on conference and the system crashed!"

They span to find Emily jogging across the office, looking about as freaked out as they felt. Some way behind her was – Spencer's heart leapt –

"JJ!" Grace gasped.

"Emily!" JJ cried, catching up.

"Oh thank God you're alright!" the other woman exclaimed.

"Are you okay?" Grace asked.

"Where's Will?"

"He's stuck at the airport," she told them. "As soon as I heard I went to twenty-six Fed – they're evacuating the building!"

Spencer nodded.

"Standard procedure in the event of an attack," Grace guessed.

"Where is everyone?" JJ asked, looking around, as Detective Brustin appeared from the elevator.

"Morgan's alright, but there's no word from Hotch," Spencer told her, watching her face fall.

" _The bomber! The bomber!"_ Garcia shouted from the open laptop on the table.

She must have got some of the communications back online. They went into a huddle around it.

" _D-Derek's chasing him!"_

"What?" Spencer asked, feeling that they were lagging behind the action somewhat.

" _The bomb – it was in Kate's SUV, or under it,"_ she told them, taking a ragged, panicked breath. _"Hotch is out there with her – he seems okay, but she looks really hurt, he hasn't moved her."_

Beside him, he heard Grace take a sharp intake of breath.

"Where was Kate's SUV parked?" Rossi asked urgently.

" _Uh, two blocks east of Federal Plaza."_

Spencer pulled out a pen, already annotating the map.

"Two blocks east and they target Kate's SUV?" Emily asked.

"That doesn't make any sense!" Grace growled.

"They ID the bomber?" Rossi asked.

" _Lisa's running him through VICAP."_

"Call Homeland Security," Rossi instructed JJ. "They should be at all the murder sites – find out if they found anything."

"I'm on it."

"Garcia," said Rossi, urgently. "Find out how we can help Morgan."

0o0

His mark skidded left, grabbing the metal pole above the entrance to the subway and propelling himself down the steps. Derek followed, his gun already up. The stairs were clogged with frightened commuters, responding to the evacuation order in a panicked but fairly orderly manner.

The sight of a sprinting man being chased in their direction didn't calm anyone's fears so they backed up, the unsub cutting a swathe through them. Of course, by the time Derek tried to follow they were recovered enough to be in the way, but not quite enough to dodge back again.

He resorted to yelling at them; his gun and badge were clearly visible, so they took the hint.

"Outta my way! Move! Move! Where'd he go? Where?"

A middle-aged gentleman turned and pointed further down the platform before fleeing up the stairs. Derek ran. The unsub was leaving a trail of fallen-over people now as he pushed and shoved his way through, making him much easier to follow. He only wished the corners weren't quite so blind – anything could be waiting for him around each turn, like it had been for Detective Cooper.

Derek dodged around the next corner, only to be confronted by the last couple of frightened commuters, helping each other up. He leapt over the one on the floor, feeling himself closing in on the guy.

He strafed onto the Chambers Street platform – empty at last. The last subway train to arrive before the explosion was standing empty, its doors wide open. It looked like the driver had slammed on the brakes early – only half of the train was beside the platform, the rest extended into the tunnel.

"Show your face you son of a bitch!" he shouted, his voice echoing roundly off the tiles.

He waited, but all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing and the distant sirens above. Further down the train, a door opened and closed, expelling air from the pneumatic release. Derek swung towards it.

There was nowhere else the son of a bitch could have gone.

Cautiously, aware that the seats in a subway car gave an unsub a hundred places to duck behind or jump out of, he moved into the carriage, slowly making his way to the end. The door dividing each car from the next was heavy – and made exactly the kind of metal-air-escaping sound he'd heard before.

He pulled it shut behind him – he didn't need anybody sneaking up on him tonight. The next car was empty, and the next, and the next. Derek cleared them as quickly as he could, moving slowly (too slowly for his liking) down the train until he got to the last door – the one that led out into the tunnel.

He tore it open, flicking the torch attached to his gun-sight on. The tunnel seemed empty, but there was nowhere else the kid could have gone. Careful to avoid the electrified rail, he jumped down from the train and started along the tunnel. The darkness was absolute in the tunnel, the air still and silent. It was hot and eerie, like walking into hell. Long swathes of cables were draped along the walls, the dirt from the trains thick on every surface.

He followed the curve of it around a long, slow bend, hoping that someone at NCT would think to do a thorough sweep of the tunnels before turning the trains back on. He paused, working his way along the line; the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

Derek was being watched.

"I know you're in here, kid!" he shouted, the echoes bouncing off the walls. "Show me your face, you coward!"

Behind him, something hit the tracks; he turned, following the sound with his gun, but it was only moisture dripping from the ceiling. He span back.

"You got nowhere to run, man!" he called, needing the sound of his own voice in the dank cavern. "You hear me? There's nothin' down here for you!"

"Is that all you see?" Sam (if that was really his name) asked, worryingly close at hand.

Derek froze, consolidating his position before he could move in. He needed to know where the guy was – and if he was armed.

"Huh? Darkness?"

The kid walked towards him out of the gloom of the tunnel – slowly, calmly. His eyes were dark and empty of the bravado Derek had been expecting. He was walking along the rail, Derek realised, as he smiled and stuck his arms out for balance.

The beam of light from Derek's torch illuminated his whole body, including his feet. His bare feet. He had taken his shoes off. With both feet on the rail, he was safe – but as soon as he took a step onto the live one…

"You listen to me, you son of a bitch," Derek snarled. "You get your ass off those tracks and you put both hands on your head. Do it now. _Do it now!_ "

Sam's smile evaporated; even as his hands rose to his head, he flashed Derek a dark, sardonic look.

"You will lose in the end," he sneered.

"Shut up! You shut your mouth!"

"You wanna know why?" Sam taunted, grinning. "Because you fear what we embrace."

Derek sensed what was about to happen, even before the kid's foot rose.

"Stop! Get down off that rail!" he yelled, but it was too late. "No – don't! No!"

Sam put his foot firmly down on the electrified rail, forming circuit between the two. Derek leapt back, staggering away as the kid hung for a moment, suspended by the sudden tightness of every muscle, before falling, finally onto the rails.

"No…"

0o0

"Yes, yes – I understand," said JJ, on the phone at the desk behind him. "Thank you."

She hung up and turned to Spencer, who was still working on the map, trying to see a pattern that just wouldn't surface, mapping contingency after contingency in his mind.

"Homeland Security's poured tactical teams into all of those locations," she said. "SWAT, bomb techs, HRT, Hazmat – the works. They found nothing." She waited a beat, but he was concentrating, so he didn't immediately answer. "Reid?"

Sometimes the absence of a pattern _was_ the pattern.

"All except one," he said aloud. "Kate's SUV. None – none of the shootings were anywhere near it."

"Maybe it's personal?" JJ suggested. "This Death card they gave us," she remarked, ruefully picking it up and examining it. "They delivered on it."

"That's just it – they haven't," Spencer argued. "With a cell as large as this one and multiple targets to choose from, they target a single SUV?"

He turned back to the board.

"It just doesn't make sense."

0o0

It took them some time, but eventually Aaron and the paramedic got the artery in Kate's back clamped and her limp body onto a gurney. Aware that he was going to have to drive if the EMT had any hope of saving Kate, Aaron hauled himself into the front seat, ignoring the stabbing pains from his leg, arms and head.

He had to hang on just a little while longer…

"Where's the nearest emergency room?" he called back.

"St Barclays."

He was still having trouble hearing. "Where?"

"St Barclays," the EMT repeated.

"Where is it?"

"It's four blocks uptown, one block east," he said, hooking Kate up to oxygen and fluids.

"Where's the emergency entrance?" Aaron asked, trying to find a balance between driving steady and driving fast.

"Under the hospital – just follow the signs to the ER."

"Okay…"

He tried to focus on the road ahead, but it wasn't easy – his mind felt weak, thready.

 _Just a little while longer_ , he told himself. _Just until Kate is safe._

Behind him, he heard the EMT laugh.

"Hey, look who's back… Hello."

"Is she awake?" Aaron asked, hope flooding through him.

"Is that Aaron?" she asked, in a quiet voice.

"Are you Aaron?" the paramedic asked.

"Yeah," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "Kate – we made it!"

"Thank you," she said, though he wasn't sure if it was aimed at him or at the EMT.

It didn't really matter.

"Don't thank me, thank your partner – he did it all."

There was a roadblock at the entrance to the ER. A man in a crisp suit hurried up, waving Aaron to a halt. This could _not_ be happening.

"What's this?" Aaron asked.

"Secret Service," said the man – though he needn't have bothered, Aaron could read it off him as easily if it had been tattooed on his forehead. "We're directing all emergencies over to Lennox Hill."

He paused, taking in the cuts and bruises, the blood-soaked clothes, the fact that Aaron was blatantly not a paramedic.

"I'm SSA Hotchner," he began. "I have SSA Joyner on board, she was injured in the bomb blast at Federal Plaza –"

The man held up a hand.

"Credentials."

"They're in my jacket, at Federal Plaza!"

"I appreciate that agent, but this hospital is on a strict bypass."

Panicking, Aaron stared at the man. "What is – what's that?"

Why wouldn't they let them through?

"It means the hospital is closed," the man told him. "We're redirecting all emergencies to Lennox Hill."

Aaron leaned out the window.

"She's not gonna make it to Lennox Hill," he hissed.

Behind him, machines started to bleep like crazy.

"I'm losing her!" the EMT shouted. "She's crashing! She's crashing!"

"Please –"

The man looked horrified, trying to see over Aaron's head. He didn't want someone to die on his watch, not if he could help it.

"Let them through!"

Aaron drove on, hearing the man radio ahead for immediate ER attendance.

The journey inside was a total blur, though what he did take from it was that surgeons and attendants were rushing to Kate's aid – and that the EMT was desperately performing CPR. He got as far as the door to the ER before someone told him he had to stay behind.

He stared wildly around, bereft of something to do for the first time since the explosion. Everything seemed to be echoing. The high-pitched whine he had been fighting on and off came back, stronger than ever. He reached out for the nearest trolley, a wave of dizziness crashing over him, and then the world went sideways.

0o0

Emily had one finger in her ear, trying to hear the person on the other end of the line over the noise in the Command Centre.

"Morgan's safe!" she announced, looking relieved.

"Good," said Reid.

"Thank God."

Dave sat back in his chair, wishing all of this would end so they could check on Hotch and Agent Joyner. Pearce hurried over from somewhere behind him, brandishing a photo.

"Got it," she said, thrusting it at Reid.

"This is the unsub Morgan chased into the subway," he said. "This is the one Prentiss shot – Garcia's running them through VICAP."

"These are smart, well-educated kids, hand-picked and trained to be martyrs," Dave told him. "They're not going to be on file and they won't have rap sheets."

Pearce nodded. "They were chosen because they were invisible to this kind of investigation," she agreed.

"Hotch and Kate are at St Barclay's Hospital," JJ exclaimed, running over.

Everybody sat up a little bit straighter.

"How are they?" Dave asked.

"Well, Hotch is in the ER, Kate's in surgery," she said. "Morgan's on his way there now."

The agents all sagged slightly. While 'hospital' didn't mean 'out of the woods' at least it meant people were checking the woods and scaring off the wolves.

"The media's reporting this as a failed attack on Twenty-Six Federal Plaza," said Emily.

"Well, it's not," Dave replied.

"They're not the only ones," Brustin added. "Homeland Security feels the same way."

"They're wrong."

"They found nothing at any of the sites that you told them that these guys would target," he explained, sounding exhausted. "Maybe this thing is over."

"Or maybe that's exactly what they want us to think," Dave argued. "As soon as the bomb techs identify the device, I wanna know about it."

"Of course," said Brustin, immediately.

He wouldn't take the chance this wasn't finished any more than they would, even tired as he was – as they all were.

"Can you get in tighter on the bomber?" he asked, and watched the footage Emily enhanced. "There – he's using his cell phone."

"Joyner and Hotch approach, and bam!" Brustin observed.

"Why not wait until they both get in?" Emily asked, perplexed.

"I guess he figured he was close enough," Brustin suggested.

"Wouldn't you wait until they were in it?"

"Everything this cell has done has been precise," Pearce observed, as Brustin conceded that Emily had a point. "They wouldn't set it off early unless they had to. The timing must be intentional."

"So far these guys have accomplished nothing," Reid reflected.

"Nothin'?" Brustin asked, taking off his glasses in annoyance. "My partner was shot – Cooper? Eight innocent people were killed. Two agents blown up – not to mention Emily's suicide by cop. Is that not enough?"

"That's not what he meant," said Pearce, as Reid grimaced. "These guys want to make a big splash – all the hurt they've caused so far is dreadful, but it's small scale. They've got to have a bigger objective in mind."

Dave nodded at the picture of the World Trade centre on the wall, left as a tribute to the fallen, and everything they'd lost that day.

"That was memorable," he explained succinctly. "This isn't. Everything – everything they've done so far has appeared to be something it's not."

"I don't follow," said Brustin.

"The – the seemingly random acts of murder," Reid recounted. "The – the attempt to hack into our security surveillance system."

"The suicide by cop to make us all believe that it was over," Emily chipped in.

"Don't forget the Death card telling us they know we're watching," JJ added.

"All diversions," said Dave.

"To ensure our attention and our analysis of any given situation would then incorrectly inform our profile," Reid explained.

Brustin frowned, catching up.

"So the first responders were not the real targets…"

"They're playing us – the bastards," Pearce complained.

"Hotch and Kate were a diversion too?" Emily asked, unhappily.

"Or a means to an end," Pearce suggested.

"For what?" Brustin demanded.

JJ, who was on the phone, waved at them to stop talking.

"Hotch wants you all over there now," she told them.

"What do we tell Homeland Security?" Brustin asked, as the team scrambled to their feet.

"Tell them if they love the city as much as you do to keep it locked down," Dave told him, pulling on his jacket. "It's about to get hit."


	20. Bombulance

**Essential Listening: New York, New York, by Reel Big Fish**

 **0o0**

The team had been sufficiently on edge to put their stab vests on before they even got inside St Barclays. Something big was coming and it was impossible to tell what.

Emily watched Hotch doing up his tie, his fingers clumsier than normal. Who even bothered with a tie at a time like this?

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He was building a mask for himself, with the clothes he was used to – that he was used to other people respecting.

"Yeah," he said, glancing up at her. "I just wanna understand why I'm still alive."

"We think the idea was to maim, not to kill," said Reid.

"Did you identify Sam, the bomber?" Hotch asked, tenderly wincing his way into his own bullet-proof vest.

Reid nodded, though the answer was a negative. It wasn't like they were expecting anything else.

"Garcia put Sam into every known database – nothing."

"We know how terror cells evolve," said Rossi. "They learn from one campaign to the next. How to stay off radar, like the London bombers."

"Yeah, but they – uh – they hit at eight fifty in the morning with a series of co-ordinated blasts aimed at London's transportation system," Hotch argued.

Behind him, Grace shifted from foot to foot. "They did a pretty thorough job of it," she grumbled.

Emily wondered if she'd been there that day, seen the effects of that attack first-hand.

"This cell targeted a lone SUV where the only two people on the street were federal agents," Hotch continued.

"If it's not multiple targets it's one target," said Morgan. "One target, one bomb."

"Garcia said the device was placed under Kate's SUV," Rossi reminded them.

"It was likely made using oxidising agents including chromates, peroxides, perchlorates and red mercury," Reid told them. "All jammed into a device no larger than a cell phone."

"Imagine what a bomb the size of an oil-drum could do," Morgan reflected.

"Something that size would be pretty hard to disguise," Grace remarked. "Where would you deploy it – _how_ would you deploy it?"

Emily frowned. It would be tricky, but this cell had been scarily clever thus far.

"To make something that big you'd need a chemical engineer," said Hotch, already halfway to accepting that the thing existed.

"Like the 'recently deceased' Doctor Azahari Hoseem, Asia's most wanted bomb maker?" Rossi suggested. "Authorities dubbed him the – um – 'Demolition Man'."

"The things people do to be remembered," Grace muttered, shaking her head.

"He treated each bomb like a work of art," Rossi went on. "One wrong move, he becomes a victim of his own creation. He'll be more revered than all of the people who died because of his devices."

"Stop the bomber, stop the bomb," Emily reflected.

"To do that we need to know how they would deploy somethin' that big," said Morgan, with a nod in Grace's direction.

They were going around in circles.

"Hotch," said Reid, softly.

The footage of the explosion was looping on the laptop Emily had brought with her. Hotch watched it mutely for a moment.

"Did you find Sam's cell phone?" he asked Morgan.

"Yes."

"Did he ever call 911?"

"No. He dialled one number six times every few minutes."

"It was a disposable cell," Rossi added.

"Garcia tracked the number, but it went dead minutes after Sam died," Reid told him. "Whoever had it, destroyed it."

"So…" Grace began, frowning at Hotch. "Where did that other ambulance come from?"

Everyone seemed to look around. As big as an oil drum? _Damn._

"In a city in lock-down an ambulance with its siren blaring and lights on – it's gonna make it through every road block, virtually uncontested," Emily observed.

"Straight into a hospital with a bypass order on it," Hotch said, slowly.

"What?"

"Secret Service has a bypass on this hospital."

Emily felt her mouth fall open.

"Secret Service? Who are they protecting?" Rossi asked.

"This hospital is their target," said Hotch, with an air of urgency. "Let's go."

0o0

Secret Service hadn't taken much convincing – perhaps because the sudden appearance of six deadly serious FBI agents was fairly diagnostic of how much trouble they were all in. They'd hit the alarms while Rossi got Garcia to jam all the cell frequencies. It was just unfortunate that whomever they were protecting was in the middle of surgery.

They needed to buy as much time as they could, for everyone in the hospital – and if the cell phone was the trigger…

Morgan had departed at some speed to the basement where the ambulance-bomb was parked while the others co-ordinated with Garcia and Lisa Bartleby to shut off his access.

"Look, the EMT's coming back," Emily exclaimed, as the cell signal was disrupted. "He's going to detonate it manually if he has to."

"Where did Morgan go?" Hotch asked, looking around.

"He went to find the ambulance," said Reid, nodding at the camera.

Morgan was running down the stairs, taking whole clumps of them at a time.

"Alone?" Hotch demanded.

"Let's head down!" Rossi urged.

The others set off immediately, but Grace hung back – someone needed to co-ordinate with Secret Service, and she doubted one more agent running down the stairs would help right now.

"Move Echo-One to the roof as soon as he's out of surgery," the head Secret Service agent barked at one of his men. "Air-vac him outta here. The rest of us, we'll take the elevators."

"Keep an eye on that guy and let us know if he moves," Grace told the guy, haring after his colleagues. "I'm going with you."

The Secret Service agents glared at her momentarily, but didn't make a move to stop her. The bomb downstairs would take out more than 'Echo-One' and it was all hands on deck to stop that happening.

"We'll lose radios in the elevator," one of them said. "Oh – uh – ladies first, ma'am."

There was a truly bizarre moment when every Secret Service agent moved out of Grace's way, gallantly letting her get into the lift first and then effectively sealing her at the back of it.

"Well, look at that," she said, automatically trying to lighten the tense silence as they headed down. "Chivalry isn't dead."

"No ma'am," the nearest agent smiled down at her, a little patronising in his manner.

The lift came to a halt, bouncing slightly on its cable, and then chimed.

Their guns were ready when the doors opened, but not up – which was unfortunate because the unsub was waiting for them. He unloaded his gun into the lift.

Grace, stuck behind four beefy Secret Service agents, had enough time to react – but it wasn't her gun she reached for. Running on blind instinct she threw her left hand up, protecting herself. The air shimmered. The bullets curved around her, slamming into the wall at her back as if they'd gone straight through her. One of them caught her upper arm, tearing through the flesh.

The other agents weren't so lucky. They fell to the floor around her, already dead.

For a split second, she and the unsub stared at one another, before he raised his gun again. There wasn't time to think.

Magic surged through her and she threw him back into the wall, cracking the concrete.

The lift doors began to close, sticking on the legs of one of the dead agents. She forced her way through, trying to disentangle herself from the cooling limbs, but the unsub had already scrambled to his feet and made off.

"Officers down!" she shouted, into her radio. "Hotch – he's in the basement!"

She started after the trail of bloody footprints.

"Prentiss! Reid!" she called, but the receiver remained stubbornly dead. It must have been blown out by the force of her shield. "Fuck!"

0o0

Safe in her control room, Garcia had entered that state of zen-like calm that meant her babies were in trouble and there wasn't anything she could do about it.

"Morgan?"

" _Yeah baby?"_

He'd responded quickly, but he didn't sound happy at all.

 _Keep him talking,_ she thought. _If he needs something I can be right there._

"You sound stressed."

" _Do I?"_

"Where are you?"

She could hear him breathing hard. A run down eight flights of stairs could do that.

" _Not where I wanna be right now."_ There was a pause. _"Garcia, take this down for me: 'FD108'."_

"That's an ambulance," she said, with a frown. "Are you okay?"

" _Yeah, I'm fine – just track it for me."_

He gave a huff. Disappointment, she decided, or frustration. Something in his general area started beeping.

" _Oh my God,"_ he breathed. _"Garcia, how long can you keep jammin' the cell phone lines?"_

"Uh… a few minutes, max. Why?"

There was something new in his voice – something she hadn't often heard from her Superfox. It made her blood run cold.

" _Because I'm gonna have to get this ambulance outta here."_

"Or you could just evacuate the building like everybody else," she snapped.

" _No. As soon as the airways are clear, this thing's goin' up."_

"What? Oh my God! That's in, like, three minutes, 'cause that's when the satellite moves position!" she exclaimed.

It was pointless arguing with him. If there was a chance he could save all those lives he would take it. She could tell from his voice he had already made up his mind. She heard the slamming of a door.

" _Come on, come on… Garcia, listen to me. I need you to find an area of town I can drive this thing and tell everybody – I mean everybody – that I'm comin'."_

Penelope started typing, one eye still on the satellite that was keeping her soulmate safe.

" _Come on baby! Do it! Go!"_

The sound of an ignition starting up bled through the radio.

" _Alright, talk to me Garcia!"_

"Okay," she said, breathlessly scanning the maps. "Head north – and floor it. I'll tell you where to turn."

She heard the screech of tyres as he sped through the basement of the hospital, and – something else. Small bangs. Gunshots?

"What was that?" she demanded, panicking.

" _It's nothin', it's nothin' – just talk to me!"_

0o0

They reached the bottom of the stairs, moving in almost textbook formation, keeping each other covered and systematically clearing each area as they moved through. Since the evacuation order had been given – on top of the bypass order that was already in effect – the lower levels of the hospital were deserted and eerie.

Their footfalls echoed on the polished concrete floors, sending out a clear signal that they were coming to anyone waiting around a dark corner. It was unfortunate, but they couldn't help it now – not while Morgan was in trouble.

They fanned out as the walkway widened, Rossi and Spencer taking point while Hotch and Emily checked doors behind them as they went. Ordinarily he would have kept to the back and let the others take the lead, but Hotch was still limping and Emily had given him a look that made it clear that their boss was to be kept between at least two other agents right now, just in case.

Spencer kept to the left of the corridor, with the best line of sight, so he was the first one to see the end of a leg sticking out of the elevator doors. Given that the lift came out on a raised loading platform, the leg was roughly at eye-height.

Four of the five Secret Service agents they had been speaking with upstairs were slumped or sprawled in the base of the elevator car, bloodstains and bullet holes decorating the back wall. The door, running on its automatic program, kept bouncing against the leg of one of the agents, trying to close.

Emily stooped to check their pulses, but shook her head.

"What the hell?" Rossi asked, staring at the damage to the wall opposite the elevator. "Looks like something hit that pretty hard."

Hard enough to crack the concrete, even. A bomb? But there was no burn pattern, and surely they would have heard something like that…

"Prentiss," said Spencer, motioning at two trails of footprints leading away from the elevator and deeper into the hospital's loading bay.

"Someone made it out of there?" Emily asked, astonished.

"They left the fifth guy upstairs," Hotch recalled. "Who else was with them?"

Spencer felt his heart clench in his chest. The second pair of prints looked like a woman's boots.

 _Oh God._ He felt his chest constrict. _Grace_.

0o0

All she could really hear on the radio now were sirens and engine noise, and the occasional sound of Derek cursing. She told herself that he needed her calm, that this couldn't be happening, that her best friend wasn't driving an enormous bomb through Manhattan, but none of it helped. She stared at the marker on the map that represented the ambulance's position.

 _Go faster!_ She thought, desperately trying to will it on. _Go faster and then get out!_

" _Garcia, how am I doin'?"_ he asked.

"How's he doing?"

Bartleby, who had an eye on the satellite position while Garcia navigated, frowned.

"One minute, fifty seconds."

"Why does it always have to be you?" she demanded. "Why do you always have to do this?"

0o0

The team were running along one of the endless winding corridors in the hospital basement, following the trail of footprints, when they heard a burst of gunfire close at hand.

"Put down your weapon!" Grace shouted, somewhere up ahead. "Put it down! Now!"

 _Oh God._

There were two shots in quick succession, and then – terrifyingly – nothing. Spencer stumbled.

 _Grace…_

His heart was hammering in his chest. He told himself she would be fine; she was unstoppable.

Moving as one, they strafed around the corner, tensing as a lone figure about twenty feet away span, levelling a gun at them. She lowered it as soon as she saw them, relaxing her stance. Spencer closed his eyes briefly, grateful to see her upright and whole.

"Pearce!" Hotch shouted.

A few feet behind her, the bomber lay sprawled on the ground, two bullet holes above his heart, sightless eyes staring up at the ceiling. She held up his gun as they came level with her, putting her own back in her holster.

"He unloaded his gun after the ambulance – I think Morgan drove it out of here," she told them, an unfamiliar darkness in her eyes. It was strange and almost violent, and put Spencer immediately on edge. "I didn't know if he had any bullets left. He raised his gun –"

"Alright – it's alright," Hotch said, taking the weapon from her.

"Why didn't you call it in?" Rossi asked.

"My radio stopped working," she explained, her hand instantly going to it. "Couldn't get through."

The movement had pulled her shirt taut over her left arm, where a rich bloom of crimson was spreading. Spencer's breath caught in his throat.

"You've been hit," Emily gasped, reaching out towards it.

Grace peered down at the wound, still mostly obscured by the ragged edges of her shirt.

"Huh," she said, looking perplexed. "Look at that… Ow."

Grace swallowed, hard, and suddenly she was the impossible, bemusing woman he knew and – what, exactly? He pushed the thought away, reluctant to finish his own sentence. Instead, Spencer helped Emily prise the torn fabric back – it was already sticking to the flesh of her arm. She winced, sucking air through her teeth.

"That's nasty," Emily grimaced.

"Looks like a pretty deep scratch," he said, trying to pretend his heart was beating at a sensible rhythm. "Good job we're in a hospital."

"I'm doing a heck of a lot better than the others," she said, slowly. "I was lucky they shoved me to the back…"

"His phone's shot," said Rossi, picking it up.

It had fallen a few feet away from him and was broken beyond repair. The screen was shattered and warped, one or two buttons were hanging out, connected only by wires.

"Yeah, I think he stamped on it," said Grace, grimacing again. "Will the bomb still go off?"

"If it's already armed, yes," Hotch said, frowning.

Spencer took the cell phone as Rossi and Hotch started shouting at Garcia to find out what was going on with Morgan and the ambulance, and Emily led Grace towards the stairs. He turned it over in his hands: although the screen was cracked, the bottom half looked more like it had been melted than trod upon. Several layers of plastic had laminated and fused.

He licked his lips, thinking about the large dent in the wall opposite the elevator where the unsub had shot at Grace and the unfortunate Secret Service agents.

"He stamped on it?" he asked, walking a little way behind the girls.

"Must've," said Grace. "I mean, look at it."

Spencer watched them start up the stairs to the loading bay, thoughtfully. "Must have…"

"Morgan's driving the ambulance towards the nearest park!" Rossi shouted, catching up with them.

They all froze, cognisant of the fragility of their friend's position.

"How long until the signal stops being blocked?" Grace asked, urgently.

"Less than a minute."

0o0

"Derek, you don't have much time, please be smart about this!" Penelope pleaded.

He didn't answer and she guessed he was focussing on keeping on the road. The electronic alarm Lisa had set went off, making both women jump.

"The signal's coming back on line!"

"Thirty seconds to full coverage," said Lisa.

There wasn't anything they could do now, but watch and wait. And shout at Derek.

"Derek, drive to the opening and then get the hell out!"

" _There's somethin' I really want you to know, Garcia."_

 _Now? Right now?_

"Twenty seconds!"

"Save it, just get out!" she snapped.

" _No, no, no – I'm not quite there yet."_

"Ten."

"Morgan!"

" _Just listen to me."_

"Nine."

"Morgan, please!"

"Eight."

" _You know what you are, Garcia?"_

"Seven." Lisa winced. "We just lost tracking…"

"Morgan!" Penelope pleaded.

The explosion was so fierce that it rattled the equipment in the Command Post, nearly twenty blocks away. Lisa cursed under her breath, but Penelope wasn't quite ready to give up just yet.

She would never be ready.

"Derek?" she asked, fighting panic.

The radio didn't even crackle. All there was, was silence. Penelope felt her heart begin to break.

" _Garcia?"_

She let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

" _I'll tell you what you are to me. You're my God given solace."_

He sounded shaky and out of breath, but definitely alive. She was going to _kill_ him when he got back to Command.

" _Woman, you promise me one thing – whatever happens, don't you ever stop talkin' to me."_

She rubbed a tear off her face with her hand and sniffed.

"I can't right now, 'cause I'm mad at you," she told him.

" _I can wait."_

Annoyed, elated, relieved and exhausted, Penelope took the earpiece out and threw it at her keyboard.

She was going to _kill_ him.

0o0

He heard the words, but they didn't register at first – like he'd only imagined them – but then the surgeon was patting him on the shoulder and the orderlies were filing out of the room, giving him some space.

"I'm so sorry…"

He recognised professional courtesy when he heard it.

The operating table, with its dismal contents, was in the centre of the room, still lit by the floodlights. One of those vast blue paper towels was covering it.

Covering her.

Aaron waited until they were gone before approaching it. He could see Kate's hair, still bloodied and dirty from the blast. Steeling himself, he lifted the part that was covering her face. Empty eyes stared back up at him, their spark well and truly extinguished.

He had thought, if they could only get her to a hospital she would have been in with a fighting chance.

Aaron dropped the sheet back into place, feeling hollow and sick. He and Kate had been friends for a long time; this was not how that friendship should have ended.

Her hand, pale and limp, had flopped off of the side of the table and hung, exposed, beyond the towel. He took it, trying to ignore how cold it was, and gave it one last squeeze before gently tucking it back beneath the cover.

He turned away, unable to look anymore.

0o0

Spencer found her in a dark corner of the bar, nursing a whiskey.

He watched her for a moment, the low light turning her hair to burnished gold, a forlorn, faraway look in her eyes. She looked beautiful and sad, like something out of a Greek ode or Renaissance painting. Spencer frowned to himself, aware that the crush he had been harbouring for his friend was teetering dangerously on the brink of something much deeper and infinitely more dangerous, and that this would not work out well in the long run.

It frightened him.

In the corner, Grace finished her drink, wincing as the wound in her arm pulled. She didn't make any effort to move, instead settling back in her seat, partially obscured from the rest of the room.

The barman, who had noticed him lurking, gave him a questioning look.

"Uh – a whiskey and a brandy, please."

He carried the drinks over, dropping the whiskey in front of his friend, trying not to stare at her.

"Hey."

She gave him a brief, weary smile. "Thanks."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, gazing out of the window into the dark New York street.

"You know," Grace said, after a while. "When I was first seconded to the Major Incident Unit all those years ago, I looked at Kate Joyner and I thought, 'Now, that's a copper'. I thought, 'Couple of years from now, that's going to be me'." She sighed heavily, picking up her whiskey. "No one deserves to go out like that."

Spencer shook his head, aware that there wasn't much he could say.

"How's Hotch?" she asked.

"Not great," he said, and she nodded.

"God, what a bloody awful night," she remarked, rubbing her forehead.

She looked so lost and so completely exhausted that he slid around the table, taking the seat beside her, and appropriated her hand. Grace immediately tucked herself into his side like she belonged there, giving his arm a welcoming squeeze.

"I'm ever so pleased it wasn't you in that car," she said, softly. "Rubbish as that sounds."

Spencer swallowed, enjoying the feel of the body pressed against his ribs far more than was proper.

"The feeling is mutual," he told her, quietly. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Oh, you'd get along," she insisted.

He licked his lips, trying not to think too hard about how good she smelled. "I don't know… Maybe."

"Hah."

Grace was warm and comfortable, and Spencer rested his head against hers, revelling guiltily in her proximity. He wondered if she would mind if they stayed like this until the bartender kicked them out, nestled together in a dark corner of the bar, a little bit closer than purely platonic friends had any right to be – and then felt like a bit of a traitor to think it.

She wasn't just a bad influence; she was a threat to his continuing sanity.

"Kate Joyner," she said, clearing her throat. Her voice was steady, but thicker than usual.

Taking her cue, he picked up the last of his brandy and lifted it in a post mortem salute.

"A fine copper, an extremely clever woman and a very good person," she reeled off, quietly.

Spencer clinked his glass with hers and they both drank to Joyner's memory. He didn't move his arm from where it was resting on her leg; he wasn't sure he _could_ move it.

Grace smiled, painfully: "And an excellent judge of tea."

He put the glass down, frowning. "If we're toasting Kate Joyner's memory, shouldn't we be doing it with tea?" he asked, in all seriousness.

Grace snorted. "Actually, they don't serve it at the bar," she admitted. "I asked."

"Of course you did," he chuckled, rubbing his thumb along the delicate part of her wrist as her hand slipped back into his.

It occurred to him that he had some as part of the complimentary refreshments in his room. Suspecting that Grace would already have gone through all of hers, he pointed this out.

"That is, if you wanted some company," he added, trusting her to see this as an offer from a friend, rather than an ill-timed come-on – that hadn't been his intention at all.

To his utter and immense surprise, Grace pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, stealing all the thoughts right out of his head.

"You really are a peach, Spencer."

0o0

"I don't know, we're gonna get caught…"

"Come on kid, we're cops."

He held up the lighter.

"Smoking in a hospital is a federal offence," Agent Prentiss told them, leaning nonchalantly in the doorway.

The detectives turned to look at her, sheepishly, like naughty schoolboys. Detective Brustin took one look at her and handed the lighter back to his friend.

"You're on your own, kid."

 _Great_ , thought Cooper, sardonically. _Some partner you are._

He made a swift exit, but not without a smile. A night like the last one had a way of smoothing disagreements over. Prentiss looked around, nodding at the balloons, get well cards, flowers and teddy bears adorning every surface.

"So, I see the wife and kids came for a visit," she observed and then grinned, wickedly. "Have you told them you started smoking again?"

"Gimme a break," Cooper complained, half-heartedly. "I just got shot."

She laughed.

"And now I'm standin' in front of a beautiful woman in this – ridiculous garb, with an IV and a catheter connected to my skidedypop."

Prentiss snorted.

"You could have told me you were comin'."

"Yeah – I wasn't going to, and then… I thought I'd drop in," she told him. "I'm on my way to the airport now."

"Yeah." He nodded, Brustin had told him as much. "Um – sorry to hear about Agent Joyner. And – Hotchner, is he okay?"

"Uh, he can't fly for a little bit – his ears are –" She grimaced. "But he's gonna be fine. " She glanced down at the envelope in her hands. "So – uh – I brought this for you. For you and your family. I'm told they are _great_ seats."

"You didn't have to," said Cooper, feeling a little embarrassed.

"I know," she admitted. "I wanted to. Could just as easily have been me."

Cooper nodded. That feeling was hard to shake.

"Well, I'm glad it wasn't."

They shared a smile.

"Well, I – I got a plane to catch. Take care, Cooper."

"Yeah…"

He looked down at the tickets she'd handed him, curious.

"Oh, whoa, oh," he exclaimed, and she turned back. "Mets tickets? Most people assume I'm a Yankees fan."

Prentiss grinned.

"I'm not most people."

"No," he murmured ruefully, as she vanished around the corner. "No, that girl is not…"

0o0

"Hey," someone exclaimed. "Uh-uh, uh-uh, uh."

Aaron turned to find Morgan grabbing his go-bag, looking stern.

"I'm your ride," he informed him.

"I thought Agent Davis was driving me," Aaron pointed out, eyeing the younger agent warily.

"She was," he admitted. "I had her reassigned."

"Don't you have something better to do?" Aaron asked, grumpily.

"Than to annoy you for three hours? Hell no."

There was a glint to Morgan's eyes that suggested he wasn't going to win this argument, so he gave up.

"Give me the keys."

"Not a chance, Hotch."

Aaron rolled his eyes. "Let's go."

He sighed and started limping up the street, his junior agent keeping perfect step with him. He was a good man, and a good friend, Aaron reflected. He deserved to know.

"Quantico's requested you transfer to run the New York office," he told him, earning him an almost comical double-take.

"Hotch, they haven't even buried her yet," he said, staggered.

"We're at war," said Aaron, grimly. "Things change."

Morgan appeared to think about this. "Don't I need your recommendation?"

He stopped a little way from the car when Aaron didn't answer. "You didn't give it, did you?"

Aaron sighed. He really had wanted to get a bit more sleep and a bit less pain before having this conversation.

"Your actions, as incredibly brave as they were, were still the actions of an agent who doesn't really trust anyone," he explained.

Morgan gave him a searching look, unhappy. "Hotch, I did it for this team…"

"My opinion doesn't matter," he said, abruptly. "Job's yours if you want it."

 _But I'd rather you stayed on my team_ , he thought. _Matured a bit more, learned how to have faith in people. Or am I just being selfish?_

Apart from Jack (and Haley, still, even after the divorce), the team meant everything to him. After losing Kate in so brutal a fashion he wasn't sure he could cope with any of the current members of the BAU moving on. Not yet.

"Hotch," said Morgan, seriously. "Your opinion matters to me."

He frowned. "My life matters to me," he told him, simply. "I have, and always will, entrust you with it." He paused, letting his words sink in. "Would you do the same for me?"

Morgan didn't answer, which came as no surprise to Aaron. He did, however, insist on driving the whole way home, talking disjointedly about sports and music. By the time they pulled up outside Aaron's apartment, three and a half hours later, he was ready to kill him.

 _Still…_

He leaned into the window from the sidewalk.

"Thanks."

"No problem, man," said Morgan, affably. "Ain't that what family's for?"

 **0o0o0o0**

 **Full blame for the title goes equally to Steve Anatai and my other half, who said it the first time I watched this ep and now I can't unthink it. Eternal thanks, as ever, to MuggleCreator, gossamermouse101, xenocanaan, Evanescencefan97 and LeopardFeather – you guys keep me going and challenge me to be a better and more regular writer. This wouldn't be nearly as much fun without you lovely people! Mwah!**

 **Also to Mina, Karelin and Apolline, for their frequent likes on Facebook and helping me out of that plothole ;) As well as JC, Bones and Clare, who regularly have various parts of each fic thrust under their noses and asked if it makes any sense :)**

 **The next instalment of the Moments of Grace series, Before I Sleep, will be coming to a screen near you in June. If you want to be sure of catching it (and if you haven't already), be sure to hit the 'Follow Author' button at the bottom of the screen. And if you're bored of waiting you can always check out my other stories (largely Harry Potter related) by following the link with my name in it above :D**

 **Also, I have my own site now, where you can find out about all the 'proper' writing I do – laurenknixon (there's a dot here but the site doesn't like it) com (there should be a mad woman with purple hair on the home page). There you can subscribe to my reasonably frequent newsletter to find out updates and blog posts :D**

 **Love and Pickles,**

 **Parlanchina xx**


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